


Biological Imperatives (Or Not)

by tiamatv



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (but only at the very end), Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Awkward Castiel (Supernatural), Awkward Dates, Baker Dean Winchester, Beta Castiel (Supernatural), Beta Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester is So Done, Eventual Smut, Getting to Know Each Other, M/M, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Professor Castiel (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:47:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25102660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiamatv/pseuds/tiamatv
Summary: If Charlie’s going to bribe, threaten, cajole, or otherwiseguiltDean into one date with this beta friend of hers, well, fine. He'll give the guy just one date, that's the deal. Then Dean can walk away and go back to being the badass beta he is: geeking a little, baking a lot, andnot datingthe Awkward Professor.He just wishes everyoneelse’sgoddamned presentation hormones would stop interrupting.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 268
Kudos: 602
Collections: The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. Totally Your Type

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ltleflrt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ltleflrt/gifts).



> Hello, all! This is a completed 'fic, but I've been told that it's too long for comfortable reading without chapters. So we're trying out chapter posting this time! There are seven chapters, and I'll be posting MWF until we're done. Hopefully it will be an enjoyable two weeks!
> 
> I had been thinking about [Ltleflrt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ltleflrt/pseuds/Ltleflrt)'s wonderful prompt for what felt like _forever_ by the time these boyos finally decided to cooperate and play nicely!
> 
> For those who are smut-sensitive: all the smut's safely ensconced in the last chapter, and prior to that everything should be safe to read.
> 
> Thanks to [Ally](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllyBrooke) for the beta, and [Shen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/galium/pseuds/galium) for the name of Dean's bakery!

“You’ll like him. He’s totally your type,” Charlie told him gleefully, leaning on the second sink.

Dean didn’t stop scrubbing the flour out from the creases between his fingers, and he didn’t turn to look at her. He’d already managed to get streaks of white on his jeans after he’d taken his apron off, and what the Hell, it’d only been like thirty seconds. “Uh-huh.” He scrubbed harder. “You said that about—”

“Okay, so _maybe_ Richard Roman was an error in judgment!” Charlie pinched the air between her fingers. “A _teeny_ one.”

Dean gave her an unimpressed look and did his best to pat the flour off his thighs. “Whatever, Charlie. For a teeny error in judgment, he was a _massive alpha dick._ ” (Who had actually _called himself Dick_. For fuck’s sakes, who _did_ that?)

“Ew, ew, _dude_.” Charlie could compress her face so far with disgust that Sam had once compared her expression to a black hole. “ _Overshare_.”

“Wha—” Dean reeled back from the scrub sink—ugh, even just the thought that he’d been anywhere _near_ that arrogant knothead’s—okay, now he was sick to his stomach. “I said he _was_ a, not— _dammit_ , Charlie,” Dean growled, pressing his still-damp knuckles to his eyelids. _Ugh,_ holy shit, that was a visual that Dean hadn’t needed _ever,_ and he’d been out on a date with the guy! Finally, he raised his chin and set his stare on one of his best friends.

Yeah, Dean Winchester was a beta, but he had every confidence in still being a scary sonofabitch when he chose to be. From across the room, a lot of the time people thought he was an alpha anyway. It was _stupid—_ it’d been definitively proven long ago that height, muscle mass, and biologic sex didn’t have any relationship at all to presentation. That said, it still happened.

Unfortunately, that meant absolutely jack shit to one Charlie Bradbury.

As evidenced by the fact that she was standing in a staff-only clean-up area of Dean’s bakery like she owned the place. Somehow, she didn’t seem to have a speck of flour on her.

“Come on, just meet him,” she crooned, still looking far too chipper about this situation as she flipped her hair over her shoulder. It would have looked regal if some of it hadn’t stayed stuck on her face, and she pawed at it, spitting. “Don’t you trust your queen, handmaiden?”

“After the last time, about as far as I can throw you, highness,” Dean retorted, reaching out to pick hair off the bridge of her nose.

Charlie smacked her lips thoughtfully and reached up to squeeze just above his elbow. The flutter of her eyelashes made her look like she was trying to fan a fire with them. “Big strong manly man of manliness like you, bet you could throw me pretty far?” she cooed.

“Nope.” Dean pressed the heel of his hands to his eyes. “Too busy. Still trying to Borax my brain.” He honestly wasn’t exaggerating.

Charlie sighed with a deep, put-upon exasperation, which Dean really thought was completely uncalled for.

Dean didn’t mind dating, to be honest. He got to go out, meet people he didn’t have to sell palmiers to or get covered in flour with, maybe have some fun. He’d actually been okay with Charlie setting him up with some high-level manager dude a few weeks ago—“C-suite,” as Capital-D Dick Roman had called it, and Dean still had no idea what the fuck _that_ meant. The guy was an alpha—most guys that Dean dated were, so he didn’t have a problem with that. Dean’d even been sort of okay with the fancy-schmancy white tablecloth place with the tiny little pieces of food and all the foam. It wasn’t his preference, but he got that molecular gastronomy and nouveau cuisine were a thing. The textures had been a little weird, but everything had tasted okay.

But when The Dick had managed to lecture Dean about his business practices in the same breath as he’d tried to tell Dean just how much he could help ‘expand Bread Zeppelin’s influence?’ Uh, yeah, no. It’d just gotten _gross_ when he’d smiled, oozed teeth and alpha, and purred about how he could help make them “big, really _big_ ,” if Dean would only lie down and spread for him.

In not so many words.

Yeah, Dean couldn’t see an omega in their _first heat_ falling for that bullshit. He hadn’t even been a hundred percent sure if Roman had been talking business or _not business at all_ , but either way, it had been fucking _toxic_. Stinky like someone needing a spritz of suppressant, as Charlie herself liked to say.

“No,” he told Charlie, firmly. Dean was not dating for like another _year_ , it was going to take that long just to get the alpha stench off him.

“Castiel’s a sweet guy. _Totally_ different. I promise!” Charlie chirped, completely not put off.

“ _No_.”

“No, I mean it, Dean, he really is!” she insisted. “I mean, I guess he can be a little awkward at times, but he really means well. He’s smart, and he tries so _hard_ , and—”

Charlie was really friggin’ bad at this, Dean decided. “Charlie,” he bit off, still looking into the back of his eyelids and pressing his fingers deeper onto them until little lights flashed in his vision.

“I’ll… make your costume?” Charlie offered.

Dean lifted his hand up to his forehead and peered at her past his wrist. “What?” he asked, suspiciously.

“You heard me. I’ll make your costume,” she repeated, her green eyes wide and so innocent Dean got the spontaneous creepy crawlies. “For the Boston Scifi Film Festival. Maybe I can even have it done for _Arisia._ That Indiana Jones costume you’ve been wanting. If you go on _one_ normal, no-fleeing, no-exploding-yeast-emergencies-at-your-bakery date.” She popped up one finger and waggled it at him.

“I only made up a yeast emergency _once_.” Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Wait, didn’t you set me up with her, too? What was her name, Amara?”

“Uh. _Aaaanyway_ ,” Charlie hastily waved her hands in the air like she was erasing a whiteboard. “ _One_ uninterrupted date on your next day off.” She raised a hand and pointed it at his nose, quickly enough that Dean almost flinched, not sure she wasn’t going to jab him in the eye. Charlie’s coordination after she had a D&D game and about six cups of coffee from the Bread Zeppelin coffee urn was always suspect. “Start to finish. Appetizer to dessert. Because I know you and you will never, ever skip dessert.”

Dean grunted. Just because it was true didn’t mean that she had to say it _that_ way.

“And _no_ texting out,” she added, sternly. “Give him a chance.”

Dean went back to rubbing his eyes. He’d been up since four, which wasn’t new; he’d just finished feeding the yeast and starting the overnight brioche proof, which was also not new. So for him, it was _late_ —which Charlie knew. So, yeah, he was feeling kind of ambushed here. But… “A fedora. And a _real jacket,_ Charlene.”

“Oh, you’re _so_ gonna owe me when you like him,” Charlie muttered.

*_*_*_*

“Oh, there he is!” Charlie bounced up on her toes and waved. “Castiel! Castiel, here!”

Dean turned, and froze. Roman had been good-looking enough, sure. Yeah, he’d been a little too polished, teeth a little too white, and his shave had been so close it was like he’d had the hairs lasered off his pores. (It was possible Dean should have gotten a clue earlier: no-one looked that clean unless they thought they were _slick stuff_.) Dean hadn’t really minded looking at his face, though—at least until he realized he was looking at an asshole, basically.

This guy, though, this guy was a goddamned _plot twist._

“Oh, _shit_ ,” Dean muttered, just under his breath.

Dean was aware that he was staring. To a certain degree, yes, he cared about that. But, fuck, the guy _had_ to know how he looked, so what was the point of Dean hiding it?

The guy walking down the Jamaica Plain downtown towards them could not have looked one bit _less_ like Dick Roman if he’d tried. He was probably near to six feet of contradictory unbelievable, with a fluff of messy black hair, an elegant cut jawline, and large, sad eyes that tipped down at the corners. There was a dark bit of end-of-day scruff on his cheeks and his chin. The rumpled, autumn-weight trench coat hanging down to his calves was too big for him, and a little ugly. But he had proud, straight shoulders, the shadow of a tapered waist under a suit jacket and a sleek white button-down, and he had on a navy blue tie that Dean _immediately_ wanted tangled in his hand.

And that _mouth_.

Jesus _Christ_. 

On any other day, Dean would have turned towards Charlie and demanded, “ _What the heck is wrong with you, how dare you raid my fantasies?!_ ”

“Eh? Ehhhh?” Charlie crowed, not nearly as under her breath as Dean thought she could’ve, and added insult to injury by jabbing him in the side with her elbow.

“ _Ow_ ,” Dean answered—of course, just as one of the damned prettiest men he’d ever laid eyes upon reached them and blinked.

“Oh. Are you… alright?” he asked, carefully, and fuck, what was that _voice_?

“Yeah, uh-huh, he’s fine, or whatever what passes for ‘fine’ is in his multiverse,” Charlie insisted, hopping up to cheerfully pat the guy on the arm before Dean had the opportunity to defend whatever strange noise he’d been making in the back of his throat. “Glad you could make it, Castiel!”

“Of course, Charlie.” He turned towards Dean, and the hand he held out was just as big as Dean’s own, folding through Dean’s fingers. His voice was a careful, deep rasp, like he’d scared someone with it before. “Hello, Dean.”

Then _Dean_ blinked, because either someone was wearing some very heavy duty scent maskers to a first date or…

Huh. Wait, really? _Beta_?

Okay, he would not have guessed that.

Dean almost managed not to lick his lips. Almost. “Hi,” he answered, and what even was that noise coming out of him? To Dean the drawl of his own voice had sounded really suspiciously like that Flynn guy in that animated movie Charlie had dragged him to (the one Dean wasn’t willing to admit he’d enjoyed, even if that chameleon had been fuckin’ awesome and he’d laughed every time the frying pan came out). But maybe that hadn’t sounded as bad aloud as in his head—

“Well, thaaaaat’s my cue! Castiel, _Eugene_ ,” Charlie chirped, and thumped on each of their shoulders. “Please do everything I would do, except, you know, with peens!”

Dean’s head whipped around, but Charlie was already backing away giggling and flashing them Vulcan salutes with both hands.

When Dean turned back towards Castiel, there was just a hint of pink on the guy’s cheeks—which was really only every kind of fair, because Dean could feel his freckles about to light on fire. “Ah…” Castiel cleared his throat, and both eyebrows scooted in towards each other, his chin bobbing just a little bit to the side. “I really apologize, I… um… isn’t your name Dean?” he asked, a little helplessly.

If Dean hadn’t been drowning in humiliation right this instant, he would have thought that sudden uncertainty out of one of the most showstopping guys he’d ever seen was remarkably fucking adorable.

Yeah, most of the time Dean loved Charlie. Except for those days he wanted to go completely alpha rage on her little redheaded ass, and he wasn’t even an _alpha_.

“Yeah, my name’s Dean,” he sighed. “It’s… y’know what, never mind.” He tried on a smile, and from the expression on Castiel’s face, it hadn’t quite made it there. “You wanna get some coffee?”

Well, at least he wasn’t nervous anymore.

*_*_*_*

Dean had been on bad dates before. He dated a lot—or he had, anyway, back before he’d opened up Bread Zeppellin. He’d had fucking fantastic ones, good ones, bad ones, and terrible ones.

This, however, was successfully the _worst_.

“I want it stated, for the record,” Dean declared, with the seat of a chair digging uncomfortably into the back of his shoulder blade, “Biology is really fucking inconvenient.”

The guy he was supposed to be having coffee with narrowed his blue eyes at him from where he was tucked the rest of the way under the table with his chin resting on one knee, both arms wrapped around his shin, and his other leg sprawled awkwardly out underneath the café booth.

“You’re going to have to be more specific,” he told Dean, with a haughty lift to his chin.

Yeah, no. Dean was not impressed.

A loud crash made something next to them shake. They both peered out at where there were still two alphas between their table and the exit. Dean had wanted to make a go for it a few minutes ago, back when they’d still been posturing and snapping and snarling and the first sour wine scent of aggression had started drifting through the cafe, but _no,_ Castiel had wanted to finish his coffee.

Dean yanked his knee back just in time to avoid the beer bottle smashing into it and shattering against the booth next to them.

“Do I?” Dean demanded. “Do I _really?_ ”

“No, I suppose not,” Castiel muttered, scrunching his knee in closer underneath his chin.

*_*_*_*

“What do you _mean_ it doesn’t count?” Dean demanded, his phone pressed to his shoulder as he watched his kitchen maneuver like the well-floured, well-greased pan that it was. “No-one texted out. I didn’t invent an emergency.” He nudged Kevin with an ankle and pointed at the proofing rack—the brioche dough for the cinnamon rolls was going to overproof if he didn’t take it out soon. “I didn’t have to, it was an actual, _real_ emergency! Hell, it was on the radio this morning!”

Alphas occasionally lost their shit; this happened, it was why the manager of every enclosed public space had to stock calming sprays. Dean had them under the register at Bread Zeppelin, and he was glad he hadn’t had to use them more than once or twice—he really hated the lavender scent of that crap. But there was no doubt it was effective: a pair of alphas getting each other worked up enough that they _both_ went into rage and had to actually get tranqued down was unusual, these days. Well, outside of idiot teenagers who thought that doing that kind of shit to a kid just popping his knot could be funny.

(News flash: that hadn’t been funny when Dean was a kid, and he was pretty sure it still wasn’t. Alpha teenagers couldn’t control their canines any more than they could control their knots.)

Dean hadn’t listened to much of the news story, considering that hearing about it just wasn’t helpful when he’d been _there_ for it, but it’d struck him as a particularly _stupid_ example of alpha rage. It hadn’t even been the good old classic of two alphas coming to blows over an omega on the verge of heat. It’d been an alpha who’d knocked over someone’s cup of coffee into someone’s lap, or something.

“Dean,” he could hear the frantic clickety-clickety of Charlie programming in the background, “I love you so much. _So_ much. You understand this? And I want nothing more from you than your happiness, and an occasional orange blossom morning bun.”

“Yeah, okay,” Dean growled. “ _But?_ ” There were going to be no orange blossom morning buns in Charlie’s foreseeable future if this conversation didn’t go the way of Dean’s happiness, he could guarantee her _that_.

“I mean… didn’t you like him?”

Dean paused, and grimaced. Charlie sounded honestly disappointed. Which was sort of a new one, for Charlie. He’d gotten the impression lately that at this point she was throwing people at him like people threw pasta at a wall to see if it stuck.

He cast one last look over the early afternoon machinations of Bread Zeppelin—lunch rush was over, they just had to restock the cases for that last burst of people who came in after work—and walked into his office, sitting down in the desk chair he spent as little time as humanly possible in with a grunt.

“I mean, he was okay, I guess?” he hedged. “I dunno, we barely even talked. It was… sort of awkward. He wouldn’t stop playing with his coffee mug and just kind of looking at me.”

It wasn’t that Dean didn’t _like_ a pretty face—and shit, he’d _really_ liked it, no lie there—but if that was all there was, Hell, they might as well fuck and be done or something. Dean didn’t need to date for that. Or, you know, _not._ Just being _stared_ at over coffee wasn’t exactly his idea of a good time, even if it was a really good-looking guy doing the staring.

Actually, thank God it _had_ just been coffee, he couldn’t imagine dealing with that for a whole meal. Much less in bed. He shuddered.

“Dean,” she sighed. He could hear that Charlie had stopped typing, and that was unusual enough that Dean sat up a little straighter in his desk chair. “As a non-straight, cis-gendered, omega female I am going to be blunt with you: I can practically smell the sex pheromones that you, as a beta, _don’t even put out_.”

“Uh… okay, uh…” Dean checked his fingers for flour or sugar before scratching his head. “Yeah, Charlie, I don’t know whether you just complimented me or insulted me.”

Charlie muttered something that was either Vulcan or Parseltongue, but either way it sounded nasty. “You _know_ you’re gorgeous, right, handmaiden?”

Dean frowned. “I’m pretty good-looking, yeah,” he agreed, but why was she saying it like that?

“Oh, and so _humble_!” she crooned in a sing-song.

“ _Charlie_ …”

“Maybe he was just kind of intimidated? Or _shy?_ Did you ever think of that? That is a thing that _happens_ to normal people, Dean.”

Yeah, right, _no._ Dean snorted, loudly. “Charlie, _how_ do you know this guy again? ‘Cause there’s no normal there, he’s rockin’ scruff and blue steel like he’s on the fucking runway.”

He didn’t mean it to be funny, so he didn’t get where that long pause and then Charlie’s howls of laughter were coming from.

“R-runw… D-did you… did you not…” she gasped out. “Didn’t you even ask Castiel what he _does_?”

Dean scowled, and he would have put his feet up on his desk—except he was pretty sure that he’d have to clean flour and possibly pearl sugar off it afterwards. “I did,” he complained. “But he’d just started to tell me when the alphas started putting out stink.”

“So _clearly_ you two need another date,” Charlie chimed, sounding so triumphant that a chill went down Dean’s spine. “Because there was no appetizer and there definitely wasn’t dessert, and one that’s interrupted by two alphas scrapping it out is still _very interrupted_. Right, handmaiden, _right?!_ ”

Dean grunted.

~to be continued~


	2. Not Much of a Conversationalist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Castiel didn’t start making conversation soon, Dean was gonna start babbling about his _star sign_ or something, and no-one wanted that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh, you guys! I was so surprised and touched by the reception for the first chapter. I really hope the rest of them don't disappoint! <3

Dean seriously considered just going back to the same coffee shop, but it’d only been a week. Yes, Espresso Yourself was just a few blocks away from Bread Zeppelin, so he could pop out of the bakery at the end of the day and not have to use one of his evenings off. But the place was probably still being cleaned up and getting all the alpha stink and spilled blood sanitized out of it so it didn’t stir up anyone else’s instincts.

Dean also thought that, as little as he really wanted to be _here_ , returning to the scene of the crime like that was just pushing anyone’s luck.

So a bar it was. He let Castiel pick—fuck, he didn’t know how someone texted in complete sentences, with all the right punctuation, but used _so many_ emojis. On the bright side, the guy picked an actual nice bar and not one of the weird fratty college places that were dotted pretty much all over either side of the Charles River. Dean was a fucking adult, he didn’t need scorpion bowls or margaritas the size of his head. Not even on a date he was being forced to go on.

On the ‘okay, Charlie, you’re going to owe me a leather whip and a pair of boots to go with that outfit you’re making me’ side, the only parking in Beacon Hill cost three limbs and a few fingers, and this actual nice bar was in a _former jail._

Dean stared up at the massive granite façade and the barred-off windows, and the sign that politely—and unironically, Dean presumed—informed him that this was the Liberty Hotel.

He resented the fact that he was here right now on the one day off that he allowed himself a week. At this moment, he strongly, strongly resented his life, one small geeky redhead, and one Castiel Novak.

Dean really hadn’t minded being set up the first time. He could have said no, this time, the fucking costume did not actually matter that much to him. He probably _should_ have said no. Hell, he _still_ could—he could march himself back to the garage and eke Baby out of that cramped little parking space and—

And deal with Charlie being disappointed in him.

And _fuck_.

Dean lifted his chin, yanked his flannel further down his arms, and pretended he didn’t care that through the entryway, the inside of the grey stone prison was clearly the kind of hotel that he would not have been staying at unless he was getting mated or _married_ or something.

Castiel was already at the bar when Dean came in, turning a beer bottle between his fingers the same way he’d turned his coffee cup, and there was an empty seat next to him, a napkin already in front of it. For all Dean knew it was the same suit he was wearing—it sure as Hell still fit him just as well. It wasn’t snug anywhere except where it was meant to be, tapping right on the curves of square shoulders, his posture tight.

And goddammit, even in profile and frowning quietly at his drink, he was _every bit_ as pretty as Dean remembered, serious-faced and sharp-boned. He might have shaved in the morning, might have not. Dean might have to run a finger on his face to be able to tell just how prickly he was.

Well, at least Charlie knew how to pick eye candy for her handmaiden, so there was that.

Castiel jumped a little when Dean sat down beside him, kicking his boots up and into the bar’s footwell. Those pink lips parted, and he licked a droplet of beer off the deep bow of his upper one.

Okay, so Charlie could be a _little_ good to him sometimes.

Dean didn’t have the chance to say anything or even _greet_ Castiel, though, before he was already speaking.

“I apologize, Dean,” he said, in his whiskey voice, his gaze resting on his bottle of beer. He picked at the label the same way Dean did himself when he needed something to do with his hands. “I appreciate you meeting me again. I don’t think we got off to a good start last time. I’m not very good with people.”

Dean paused, halfway into settling into his seat. “Uh…”

“You must have a very good nose,” Castiel pushed on.

Dean’s eyes narrowed, and his fingers tightened cold on the edge of the bar. Right. “’For a beta,’ you mean,” he stated, flatly. He might not _need_ his nose for any of that mating-scenting bullshit, but his had always been particularly good by _anyone’s_ standards, and he didn’t need any fucking condescension about it.

Castiel turned his gaze away from the edge of paper he was peeling up and blinked at him. Even in the bar’s shadows and low, yellowish light, his pupils big with the darkness, his eyes were still close to the bluest thing Dean had ever seen. “No? Or… yes? I don’t know. Better than mine,” he answered, and he sounded… honestly confused? “I didn’t smell anything until it was too late. I should have listened when you said you did. We should have left earlier.”

Oh. Huh.

Huh.

“Well… Yeah,” Dean admitted, and settled the rest of the way down. Then he smiled, a little ruefully. “Biology, man. It’s crazy. You’d think after all this time, we’d’ve evolved enough that alphas wouldn’t rage anymore.”

“That’s true,” Castiel agreed, easily enough, “but evolution is rarely convenient that way.”

There didn’t seem to be much to say to that. Dean sipped his drink—they both did, for a while. After about ten minutes of increasingly excruciating silence, Dean had decided that yeah, this guy wasn’t much of a conversationalist, was he. _Charlie, seriously, what?_ Most people at this point at _least_ started talking about themselves. Hell, _Dean_ was halfway to starting to babble about his star sign or something.

Okay, so he wasn’t going to do that, _no_.

“Hey, uh…” Dean started, then blinked when Castiel jumped a little on his bar stool, like he was surprised he was being talked to. “So… how do you know Charlie?”

She’d refused to say. From the way she’d started cackling when Dean had asked, the story was either going to be great or it was going to be completely boring.

(Or it was going to be ‘saw him riding the T one day and thought he’d make a nice present for my favorite baker, so I kidnapped him, hogtied him, and gift-wrapped him for you.’)

It wasn’t the right question, though, because Castiel’s slightly wide-eyed look turned _alarmed_. “Through work,” he answered, after what was clearly a silence that went on for much too long.

Work, huh? Not much of a liar, either, apparently. “Uh-huh,” Dean drawled. And if he was kind of interested now despite himself, who could blame him? Castiel looking like a combination of shifty and _embarrassed_ like that, color rising high to his cheekbones and his eyes a little bit wide, was actually… sort of cute.

“It’s not… we’re just…” Castiel sighed and tipped his head back, looking at the high, dark ceiling like he was praying. “We _did_ meet through work,” and the plaintive tone in his smoky voice was _definitely_ cute.

“Look, Charlie bribed me to meet you the first time and _threatened_ me into meeting you this time, so you might as well tell me, man, it really can’t be that bad.” Dean spread his hands out to either side, shrugging wryly. “She already told me that even if I run screaming she’s gonna keep tossing me back at you until we get one uninterrupted date out of all of this.”

 _Dean_ thought that was pretty funny for anyone who knew Charlie even a little, so Castiel’s glance at him sideways without even a smile was not really boding well for the rest of the evening. But the guy finally sighed, and his shoulders drooped inwards. “Charlie stumbled across some of my… student advisees? At one of their…” he hesitated, and brought his drink to his lips.

Someone was definitely stalling. “Seriously, the longer you drag this out the crazier my imagination is going. So you work for Harvard. Got it. Heat-sex parties?” Dean asked, his tongue poked hard into his cheek. “Ritual sacrifices? Are you guys the ones responsible for the weather on Harvard Grad Day every year?”

Castiel choked on his beer and grabbed for his napkin.

Then he actually looked like he was thinking about the question.

“Possibly?” he finally answered, and this time it was _Dean’s_ turn to choke.

He’d just turned to stare when one of Castiel’s eyebrows lifted at him, just slightly, and a second later he let out a chuckle—a quiet, dark sound. “You’re right,” he agreed, and to Dean’s astonishment, a little _mischief_ flashed in his expression, tipping the corners of his eyes. “In comparison to what you’re thinking now the truth _can’t_ be that bad.”

“ _Sonofabitch_ ,” Dean exclaimed, but… okay, fair. He laughed, this time. “Alright, alright, you got me, but now you’ve _gotta_ tell me.”

Castiel twiddled with the scraps of paper and folded his napkin once before peeking sideways at Dean again. “Some of my students arrange a yearly event in the spring? They dress up in ball gowns and top hats and waistcoats and such, and carry, um, croquet mallets? And they wander around the Yard trailing after another student, who is dressed as a fox. The fox’s role, as far as I can tell, is to mock everyone following them around and tell them how bad they are at croquet.”

Dean blinked, slowly. “You’re not talking about someone dressed up really hot, are you.”

“No. Um, they’re dressed as an actual fox.” Castiel raised both his hands to his head and to Dean’s complete amazement, this gorgeous, fully grown man made _ears_ on the top of his own head with his fingers. And waggled them. “Everyone saunters politely after them and says things like ‘cheerio’ and they talk about the weather a lot. They call the whole thing the ‘Myld Hunt,’ I believe.”

Dean put his head down on the bar and _wheezed_.

“Charlie stumbled across them on the Widener steps last year. She was _very_ offended that they wouldn’t allow her to join in, and demanded to speak to their faculty advisor, and so—”

Dean flailed out and clapped Castiel on the shoulder, hard enough that Castiel stumbled to a stop. “Okay, okay, stop, Cas, I can’t breathe,” he whined, still with his head down and his shoulders shaking. “ _Fuck_ , no wonder everyone has a weird idea about Harvard kids.”

Not that Dean would have ever even spit in the direction of attending the Big H—and Sam still looked _so offended_ Dean had settled in the Greater Boston Area rather than the Upper Bay—but Dean might have _considered_ actually going to college rather than culinary school if he’d known they did crazy shit like that.

“You should see them in the fall,” Castiel continued, completely dry. “They paint themselves blue and scamper around after a student dressed as a stag. There are bets amongst the faculty on how many calls I have to field from HUPD that night, every year.”

Dean was still snickering when he finally straightened. “So _you’re_ the one who wrangles Charlie’s little minions.” Alright, so that explained why she was being so pushy about the guy. “The, what’s it called? Harvard Radcliffe something something. The sci-fi club with the weird name, the one she writes all those LARP scenarios for?”

“HRSFA, yes. The students call themselves HRSFen, and according to the university, I believe they’re technically _my_ minions, thank you,” Castiel told him, haughtily—before his eyes narrowed. “You know what LARPing is.” It wasn’t a question.

Caught, Dean took too big of a swig of his beer and ended up nearly coughing it back up. “Yeah, uh… yeah, well, you know Charlie,” he mumbled, wiping his mouth. “Sink or swim, with her.”

“Mmm.” Castiel’s head tilted to the side, and _Jesus_ , having all that attention fixed on him was making it just as hard to catch his breath as it had been the first time. Except here, they weren’t in some brightly lit corner coffee shop: Castiel’s skin almost glowed in the low orangey lighting, his end-of-day shadow was something Dean wanted to trace with his nose, and Dean didn’t even know how his eyes looked even _more_ blue, not less. “Charlie says you’re one of her best friends, and recommended you very highly.”

Dean bit down on the smartass remark that what was he, Oprah’s Book Club pick of the month?

“She didn’t tell me how you two know each other, though.”

Well, at least she hadn’t said he was her handmaiden. Even if it was _true_.

Dean chuckled, softly. “Charlie and I both live in JP,” he explained. “She was one of my first customers when I opened up Bread Zeppelin a couple of years ago? My bakery,” he answered Castiel’s quizzical little sideways head tilt. “Then she started bring her D&D group over to play at the corner table one night a week, and next thing I knew they wanted us doing the desserts for one of their weddings.”

He had to admit, he hadn’t really expected Castiel’s face to brighten up with interest, damned Haaaahvahd prof that he was, but that attention was right back on Dean, and he’d stopped playing with the label on his beer. “Were they good? The desserts.”

“Fuck _yeah_ they were!” Dean exclaimed, offended. “Eclairs with maple crème patissiere, bacon sprinkles and nougat on top? Freakin’ orgasm in your mouth, even though it’s a pain in the ass to make. That choux pastry, man, it’s weird stuff. You have to cook it first, get all the raw out of the flour. But you can’t lose too much water, ‘cause then you can’t pipe it and it cracks in the bake, ‘cause that shit does its own thing once it hits the heat, and…” Dean bit down on his lip and stopped himself. “Yeah, okay, shutting up now. _No-one_ wants to hear ‘bout food science.”

“No, don’t stop,” and he blinked to feel the brush of fingers, lightly, on the back of his wrist—and Castiel was smiling when Dean looked up, the little crows’ feet at the corners of his eyes deepening sweetly. “You remind me of my brother,” Castiel told him, chuckling.

Dean was so caught up in the reality of that smile that it took a second before he actually heard the words. Yeah, Dean was pretty sure the concierge could have seen Dean’s whole face freezing from _outside_ the bar.

Whether it was Dean’s sudden horrified silence beside him or the _oh fuck no way_ scent that Dean was pretty sure he was putting out, beta status be damned, Castiel turned to glance sideways at him and frowned. A heartbeat later, his eyes went wide and his face went _splotchy_. “Oh—I don’t—I didn’t—I mean, that’s not—I… oh, _God_ ,” and he tilted his head back, baring the long line of his throat. It’d have been a really pretty show if Dean hadn’t been working on not bolting.

“ _Dude_ ,” Dean managed. “What the fuck.”

“I know. Why do I speak at all?” Castiel asked the ceiling, and Jesus, Dean had not thought that there was a way to make that deep, dark, sexy voice sound pitiful. “I’m not sure why _anyone_ allows me to talk.” His expression, though, when he lowered his eyes back to Dean’s was a mix of resigned stoic and sheer existential terror. “As you no doubt have noticed, I am _terrible_ at conversation.”

Actually, Dean thought he’d been doing all right for a little bit there—sorta funny, sorta dry, a little goofy. “Uh-huh.”

But Castiel kept going. “And I truly did not mean _at all_ to imply that you look, sound, or that I think of you in _any way_ at all as—”

Dean held up a hand. He really didn’t need to hear it again. “Just stop.”

Castiel lapsed back into silence, ducked his chin, and wrapped both hands back around his beer bottle with a sigh. His shoulders hunched inwards.

 _Well, okay, so here’s why a guy this fucking hot is still single_ , Dean noted, ruefully. _Nerdy Harvard professor with the worst damned case of foot-in-mouth disease the world’s ever seen._ But, shit, the sad eyes in that look he was giving his hands could’ve given _Sammy_ a run right down the block for his money.

“Alright. Look, that—” and Dean stopped. Turned around. Sniffed.

Dean wrinkled his nose, and huffed the breath back out through his mouth so he didn’t have to keep it in his nose any longer than possible. “Hey, Cas, remember what I was saying ‘bout evolution and alphas not raging anymore?” Dean heard himself cut the guy’s name short, and shrugged. Eh. Actually, he'd done it a couple of times now, hadn’t he.

Castiel frowned, but he didn’t look offended. Just… tired, mostly. Tired, embarrassed, and just kind of sick of himself in a way that Dean didn’t want to understand but he actually really _did_. “Yes?”

The vinegar stink of sour wine was already starting to get so thick that Dean started taking little shallow breaths just so he didn’t gag. What the _fuck_ was it with all the alphas in town this fall? No-one was actively fighting, and he couldn’t hear any growling, but the omega sitting on the other side of Cas was flicking her head back and forth nervously like she was looking for the source of the scent already. “Yeah, so I’m pretty sure I jinxed us again,” he muttered, swallowing spit. “If you don’t want to wait for the scent sprays to come out then we oughtta get out of here like… _now_.” Dean really fucking hated the smell of those things, couldn’t get the lavender of them out of his nose for _days_.

Castiel nodded, and slid off his stool without an argument. Dean started leading their way out through the slow-moving crowd of grumbling betas, alphas already turning a little red-faced, and the occasional white-faced omega. But Dean realized as he was standing by the check-in desk that Cas wasn’t right behind him anymore. He could already hear the manager in the front hurriedly calling for the settling spray, but Dean craned around, scowling and looking for tall, dark, and awkward. Where the Hell had he gotten to?

Castiel hadn’t moved from his position standing by the elevated bar, and Dean didn’t bother to hide his grunt of exasperation.

But…

The omega who’d been sitting on the other side of Castiel was still on her bar stool, but she was turned towards Dean’s date now. She had blue eyes the size of dinner plates, the whites of them visible even as far away as Dean was—she was practically quivering, her breath coming in hyperventilating pants that were heaving her shoulders up and down. Fuck. Dean bit down on the inside of his cheek as a pop of guilt bunched in his stomach, and he started looking for a route back past the slow-moving lines of irritated outgoing patrons. He hadn’t realized just how bad off she was already. Shit, he didn’t have any filters on him, Dean’s omega friends always carried their own.

Castiel—who hadn’t made it through a hour of conversation without managing to offend _Dean,_ and that was really saying something—said something Dean couldn’t hear. Dean felt his own eyes go wide as Cas tugged the knot of his tie down and flipped open the first few buttons of his button-down. He leaned in towards her, inclining his head to open the line of his throat, shockingly exposed. The girl pressed her face to his neck. After a moment, she shuddered, but nodded, lifting back away from him.

He'd scent-calmed her. Jesus. _Cas_.

Castiel had a hand tucked gently underneath her elbow as he helped her down off the bar stool. Dean watched, his mouth sagging open, something warm and achy curled just under his sternum as he carefully escorted her across the short distance from the bar to the entrance.

“You’ll be alright, Hanna,” Dean could hear Castiel telling her, and his deep voice was surprisingly gentle for all its sandpaper. “See? You just need some air and to get away from the scent. Call your mate to come pick you up, and you’ll be fine.” His voice took on just a bit of a darker authority. “Don’t leave your filters at home next time, though.”

Castiel stopped by Dean’s side, but he gently chivvied the girl the rest of the way towards the entrance. From this close Dean could see she was already starting to shake in sympathetic fight-or-flight, but her eyes were clear when she ducked her head and whispered “Thank you,” to Cas.

Castiel just nodded, and his eyes followed her carefully as she wove her way to the door and ducked out, but the moment she was gone, he turned his attention the rest of the way back to Dean. The one-two punch of his eyes was not any less startling than it had been the first time. He was even more mussed now, his tie flipped around and his buttons still open. Dean somehow kept his eyes from dropping to the warm shadow-hollow of his collarbone.

“Um, did you know her?” Dean blurted, and why _that_ was the first thing that came to his mind he had no idea. Well, maybe because Castiel had just bared throat in the middle of a bar where there was an angry alpha making a stink, and let a scared omega scent him. Yeah, he was beta, and _yeah,_ that deep, visceral calm was exactly what beta scent _did_ for a lot of people, but just how _vulnerable_ that was made a wedge stick in Dean’s chest. He’d helped out a lot of alphas and omegas when the hormones were running high in the air, sure. But Hell, he was pretty sure he’d only ever shown throat like that for _Sammy_.

“No,” Castiel told Dean. “Sorry.”

He didn’t sound the least bit sorry, though, and suddenly, abruptly, Dean liked him just a little better for that. Enough that he opened his mouth and made a really bad decision. “Look, I’m gonna go, but… how ‘bout next time we meet somewhere without alcohol _or_ caffeine?” Dean offered. “Like, you know. A meal.”

Castiel blinked at him, and now he _did_ look surprised. “Next… time?”

“I made a deal with Charlie, I keep my deals, and I don’t get to get rid of you until after we actually make it to dessert.” Dean shrugged. “I’d say getting kicked out by alpha stink twice in a goddamned row still counts as Date, Interrupted, don’t you?”

“Oh. I… suppose,” Cas murmured.

*_*_*_*

“So? _So?_ ”

“Keep your crown on, geez. He’s a nice guy, I guess.”

“See? _See,_ I told you, isn’t he just a sweetheart? So when’s the hot beta smexing happening?”

“Well, now I don’t want to ever have sex again. Thanks, kiddo.”

“Pff. I’ll believe that when I see it. Wait, you _are_ gonna go see him again, right?”

“Well, by _your_ crazy rules, I kinda have to.”

“You… _have_ to?”

“We, uh, had to leave again?”

“…Dean Winchester, if you tell me you got driven out of your date with Castiel by an alpha raging up the place _again_ I’m _calling bullshit_.”

“Well, okay.”

“ _Well?_ ”

“Well, then you can call bullshit, but it’s still _true._ ”

~to be continued~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Cas. I love you, boyo, but you are so awkward sometimes you make even me flinch.
> 
> The Liberty Hotel is a real place! The bar in it is so completely pretentious. Dean would _hate it._


	3. The Pet in the Refrigerator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh… I don’t think you want to hear about that. It’s very boring to most people.” Cas blinked, slowly. “But you were telling me about your experiment with the exploding meringue?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much love for all of you! (And poor awkward Cas very much appreciates your sympathy.) This is a shorter chapter, but I promise the rest will be longer!

Castiel, Dean realized abruptly about half an hour into The Date Take Three, didn’t know the first damned thing about how to talk about himself.

He didn’t brag. He didn’t so much mention his job—even though Dean _knew_ he taught for the Big H, and he’d let drop the tiniest hint that when he wasn’t teaching, his lab was over by Man’s Greatest Hospital. So that explained why he’d wanted them to meet at the Liberty in Beacon Hill, but it also meant he probably did some kind of crazy science stuff with a ton of funding, too.

Dean had heard Charlie go on and on about grant proposals and T-32s and K-grants. But Castiel? Nope. Not a peep. It was like he’d never learned how to talk himself up. When Dean poked, he mentioned a few more stories of ‘his kids’—and oh man, that got a laugh out of Dean, for sure, he could just see them freaking out the tourists by wandering around with black hooded robes and candles during the time difference change. Those kids were _nuts._

But other than that? Cas just… listened, mostly.

The food was good, though. The food was _great_. Holy crap Dean could _taste_ the buttermilk in his fried chicken and the biscuit it was sitting on. The bacon on top of it was definitely not store-bought, and he could’ve eaten the sausage gravy poured over it all with a _spoon_. The thing definitely earned the name ‘Dirty Bird,’ ‘cause the noises Dean was making as he ate it were definitely _dirty_.

There were some guys playing blues quietly in the background—not normally the kind of thing Dean enjoyed, but it fit the little restaurant with its scratched-up tables and diner-style menus. He didn’t normally come all the way this far across the river unless he was getting supplies, Somerville could be a Masshole traffic trek from Jamaica Plain, but _damn_.

Cas just about lit up like six feet of sexy Christmas tree when Dean told him, after a spicy, sharp sip of homemade ginger beer and a bite of fried green tomato with ranch dressing, “Alright, I forgive you.” He didn’t even ask what Dean was forgiving him _for._ Just looked happy about it.

(Dean was forgiving him for the fact that the only parking here in this corner of Somerville was street parking, but since it was Somerville and not Boston, the streets were wider. And _not_ fucking cobblestone. Anyway, the food was so good that he didn’t think Baby would mind for just a few hours.)

It wasn’t _weird_ or anything, just sitting with Cas, though—Dean had sort of expected it to be, after everything, but it wasn’t. Hell, they’d hidden under a table together and Cas had just about sent Dean running already once when he opened his mouth, so why _not_ try something different?

The way Cas looked at everything was pretty freaking intense, but the quiet of him, Dean realized, had something almost gentle about it. Castiel didn’t seem to be bothered, either—the guy wasn’t trying to force the talk, he was just eating his shrimp and grits with a quiet _mmm_ of enjoyment that, unexpectedly, nestled up against Dean’s nape again. It was just like the first time he’d heard that hot-as-hell voice, all over again.

 _Unlike_ the first time he’d heard that voice, though, Cas didn’t just stare at him. Castiel smiled a little when Dean mentioned Sammy’s law practice in California, saying “You must be so proud of him” like he _knew_ Dean was, rather than just thinking he might be. And Cas actually _grinned,_ flashing a set of deep, curving dimples that just about knocked Dean off his seat, when Dean told him about Benny almost burning his beard off the first time he flambed something in culinary school.

Still, though. Was it too much to ask that the guy share just a _little_ about himself?

When Dean, sort of in desperation, asked Castiel what kind of research he did—Hell, that was a guaranteed way to get an H-bomb prof talking, right? Even _Charlie_ started rattling off about computer science whenever anyone let her, and Dean didn’t think that hearing Cas talk in that quiet smoky voice was gonna be a hardship even if he _didn’t_ understand anything he said—Cas just smiled, a little wryly and a little sadly, out of the corner of his mouth.

Cas answered, “Oh… I don’t think you want to hear about that. It’s very boring to most people.” He blinked, slowly. “You were telling me about your experiment with the exploding meringue?”

Dean didn’t realize how smoothly he’d gotten redirected until he was in the middle of explaining what happened if someone was dumb enough to put meringue in the microwave, and Cas was giving him curious, interested eyes again.

Seriously? _Seriously?_

So yeah, after Dean realized that he had really been talking about _himself_ for way too long, he just went for it.

“So, Cas. What’s this about your brother?” he asked.

Castiel bodily flinched back against the diner booth, his whole face going tight. “Oh. Dean, I really apologize, that—”

His expression was like he thought he was gonna be mocked, and he was just going to sit and take it. Dean, in a moment of inspiration, nudged Cas’s ankle hard with his toes under the table, and Cas almost jumped out of his chair. “You know what _I_ tell people when I’m trying to find a fast exit out of a date?” Dean asked, casually.

Cas’s eyes went wide and startled and a little horrified, and he put down his spoon with a clatter. “Oh—no, Dean, that wasn’t what I was—not at _all_ , I—"

Dean knew that, of course he knew that, so he barreled right on, “I tell ‘em I keep a pet in my refrigerator,” he told Cas, keeping his face very serious and his eyes open just a little too wide. He rested an elbow on the table and leaned into it, nodding. “In a jar. Gotta feed it and clean up after it, though, so it’s pretty high maintenance, but you gotta do that if you wanna eat it one day.”

Castiel paused in the middle of his stammering apology. Blinked. Closed his mouth.

Then one dark eyebrow rose—just one. And Dean _stared,_ ‘cause sudden amused confidence was a really, really _amazing_ look on Cas’s pretty face.

“Is that supposed to worry me?” he asked, chin up.

Dean blinked, a little thrown. “Uh…” Well, yeah, most people who weren’t psychopaths got a little concerned at that.

But what kind of looked like arrogance at the first blush crumpled down, and Castiel bit his lower lip on one side as he cocked his head. “Dean, I’m a _biochemist._ ” Cas told him, chuckling, and he shook his head, peeking up at Dean with those blue, blue eyes. “I’m pretty sure you’re referring to your bread starter. Aren’t you?”

“Well… I mean, yeah?” Dean agreed, curiously, before he wrinkled his nose, playfully. “Way to take the fun out of freaking you out.”

“Oh. Is that supposed to be fun?” Cas leaned his forearms on the cracked diner table between them, still smiling—he really did have a great smile, Dean had already realized. Not practiced, or anything. Nothing like that sealed-and-stamped exhibition that Roman had with the capped canines, just a tiny secret of a grin: small, kind of crooked and almost always a little shy. Cute, not sexy. Which was a weird thing to say about a really sexy guy, but still true.

“It’s fun for _me,_ ” and Dean threw a wink in there just for kicks. “So you know about yeast, huh? You bake?”

“I don’t, but I’ve probably worked with nearly as much yeast in my career as _you_ have. Not so much anymore, it’s mostly cell culture lines now,” Cas admitted, “but yeast cells grow and divide and respond to insults the same way as human cells. They’re just… easier to experiment with.”

Dean grinned. “I’ll say.” He waggled his eyebrows. “I got a sourdough starter in the fridge at home that’s as old as my little brother, so…”

Okay, he didn’t know _anyone_ else who would have laughed at that bit of baker humor, but Cas did—his eyes closed almost all the way, flashing a line of straight white teeth with delicate beta canines, and those full lips of his parted to a soft oval. Dean stared. _Damn,_ but that was a real good look on him.

“I, um. Have five brothers,” Cas finally offered, a little shyly.

Dean realized that it was stupid that he felt this sudden rush of triumph that Cas was actually _offering_ information about himself now. What the fuck was Dean, a twelve-year-old girl?

(Didn’t make the tingles any less real, though.)

“Five?” Dean whistled, softly. “You the oldest?”

“The youngest,” Cas told him, so gloomily that Dean had to pinch his lips closed to keep from snickering. He saluted the poor bastard with his water glass and took a drink instead. “Oh, yes, please laugh. Gabriel hadn’t transitioned yet when I was growing up, so it was five older brothers—all of them _alphas_.” His lips twisted, rueful. “As are both our parents.”

This time, Dean coughed and put his water glass back down a little too hard, pounding on his chest with a fist to clear it. “Holy _shit._ ”

Wow. Talk about outnumbered. No wonder Cas was quiet. Jesus, that house must have _stank_ at times.

“Yes,” Cas agreed, dryly. “That is one way to put it. There are many jokes about how Gabriel certainly identifies as beta compared to our older brothers, but trans-beta or not he’s _still_ more alpha than almost anyone else outside of our family.” He gave Dean a shy glance again. “He, ah, he makes sweets for a living? And enjoys talking about it. To anyone who’ll listen, really.”

Oh, _there_ was the light bulb Dean had been missing. “Oh!” He saluted Cas with a bite of biscuit smothered with gravy. “ _That’s_ what you meant!”

Cas dipped his chin in a nod, lips twisting a little ruefully, but he straightened up his shoulders and told Dean, with a delicate seriousness, “I’m almost sure I can rattle off the temperatures for the different stages of candy making by heart by now, and _nothing_ could be duller than that.” Then he wrinkled his nose and sighed. “I think I’m probably boring you just saying that sentence.”

Dean barked out a laugh. “Are you kidding? You don’t stop _me_ and I’ll talk your ear off. Charlie’s my best friend, and even she gets tired of me talking about food stuff.”

“Oh, no. Please, _please_ take me seriously when I say that someone talking passionately about the science of baked goods could never bore me.” Cas leaned forward like he could convince Dean he meant it just with his body language. Actually, he probably _could_. “It _has_ to be more interesting than sugar and isomalt.”

“Wait.” Dean frowned, and swallowed his savory bite. “Did you say your brother’s name is _Gabriel_? He local—like up down that way, right near here?” Dean waved vaguely in the direction of what he thought was Somerville’s Union Square. “Guy yeah high,” he raised his hand to just at his eye level, “lighter hair than you, doesn’t shut up? Smells like a beta, brags like an alpha, flirts like an omega in heat with everyone in sight?”

Castiel winced hard enough that the shrimp in his bowl wobbled when his knee hit the bottom of the table. “ _Oh_.”

Dean laughed in delight. “Oh, yeah, I _should_ be offended,” and when Cas gave him a wide-eyed look pitiful enough that _he_ looked like an omega coming down from some bad decisions, Dean had to reach over the table, chuckling, to pat his arm. “I guess I forgive you. I get my marshmallows and toffee from that guy, y’know, small freakin’ world.”

Castiel’s mouth rounded with surprise. “You don’t make your own?”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “ _Hey,_ ” he complained, playfully. “I don’t tell _you_ how to do your job!” But in response to Castiel’s slow, worried blink, Dean chuckled. “I draw the line at soft caramel. Praline, sometimes. And I make my own fondant when someone twists my arm to make me do fancy wedding stuff, ‘cause the commercial stuff tastes like _shit,_ ” he admitted. “But marshmallow needs _babying_. And the crunchy stuff? Pain in the ass to make, all that fiddling with candy thermometers and boiling hot napalm and shit, so I’m with you about the sugar.” Dean gestured with his glass of ginger beer. “Gabriel does a good job—though, fuck, he’ll tell _you_ that before you ever get the chance to tell him, won’t he?”

This time, Cas was definitely starting to smile again for real, and Dean didn’t know _who_ the fondness in there was for, but he was kind of hoping it was for him. “Clearly you _do_ know him.” He nibbled on his last shrimp—careful and polite, but there was nothing polite about those _lips_ of his.

Dean tore himself away from staring by taking the last bite of his chicken. He remembered to finish chewing and swallowing before his mouth kept running away with him. “Besides, those toasted white chocolate bars with the little cocoa nib bits and those, what are they, ancho bars? The crunchy ones with the chili caramel? They’re fucking delicious…”

Okay, why was he still talking about candy? Actually, why was he still _talking,_ he’d just barely gotten Cas to open up a little. _Dammit_.

Dean trailed off and sniffed. He'd thought for a second that it was just because he had been talking sugar, because Dean had a great nose and spent so long around things to cook that he _totally_ got moments of phantom smells. But yeah, there was no mistaking that.

As a baker, he’d been told many times that he should like the smell of someone going into heat. Why wouldn’t he, right? It was supposed to be all sugar and sweet. Dean pretty routinely told them to shut their mouths.

Number one, ‘too sweet’ was pretty much a baker’s worst sin. Number two, it was _his_ nose and he knew what he liked and what he didn’t. And number three, the only thing that Dean could compare the smell of heat to was if someone had taken candied rose petals, dipped them in orange water, and then stuck them into a dark box to ferment or something.

The soft blues music jangled to a stop. One of the guitarists pressed himself into a corner, already fumbling for a blocker patch out of his guitar case with a grimace. Someone from one of the other tables groaned. Dean winced as someone growled. “Hey, Cas, yeah, uh, we… should go.” It hadn’t gotten strong yet, but it wouldn’t be long now.

“Are you…” This time, Cas’s face pinched as he sniffed the air. Yeah, no matter how nose-blind Cas was even he couldn’t miss the beginning strains of that. “ _Oh_.”

Omega slow-build heats and Dean’s nose being what they were, they had time to settle up properly this time rather than just dropping a card on the emergency reader, but it still took too long before they were both outside. They stood across the street with the rest of the patrons, and took deep gulps of the fresh, cold autumn air. Then he and Cas turned and looked at each other.

Dean didn’t know which of them started laughing first, but suddenly they both were, and Cas really had a _great_ laugh—deep and shaky and a little raggedy, like the grind of an engine that needed a little oil and a little love. Dean kept chuckling and maybe watched him laugh for longer than he should have. When they both settled down, Cas’s smile was so damned pretty that Dean stuck both hands into his pockets to keep from reaching out to trace it with a finger.

“So, uh…” Dean raised both shoulders in a tight little shrug. “Looks like I’m gonna be stuck with you _again._ ” Gently, he elbowed Cas in the side; Castiel rocked at the light touch. “At this rate, Charlie’s just gonna keep riding me and we’re never gonna be done. _I_ pick the place next time, I think you’re bad luck.”

Cas studied him, and Dean wasn’t sure why his smile had changed, a soft, sad little curl just at the side of his mouth, but then it was gone and settled back into his normal seriousness. “Alright.”

“Well, at least it wasn’t alpha stink,” Dean added, grinning.

“I _really_ think you need to stop challenging the fates, Dean,” Castiel sighed.

*_*_*_*

“You’re _kidding_.”

“Charlie, I know better than to kid about heat with an omega, I’m not suicidal.”

“Yeah, damn right, bitches, that shit is not a joke.”

~to be continued~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear these delightful idiots will get somewhere. Someday. Don't blame them, blame me.
> 
> Highland Kitchen, with its Dirty Bird, spicy ginger beer, fried green tomatoes with ranch dressing, and live blues music, is very real. The ancho bars and the toasted white chocolate with cocoa nibs that Dean was mentioning are also real, and are indeed to be found in Cambridge/Somerville—though they are by EHChocolatier and obviously are not under Gabe’s label. (Elaine has a website, though, and they DO ship...😉)
> 
> I know I should stop with the food porn. But let's be perfectly honest and admit that I won't, shall we?
> 
> Next chapter coming Monday!


	4. Steampunk Aficionado

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You getting the feeling that things are kind of escalating?” Dean sighed.
> 
> Cas tipped his head back and raised a—surprisingly bossy—eyebrow at him. Then he sighed in what looked like agreement. “I suppose nakedness being involved counts as an escalation.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Monday, lovelies! We are at the halfway point, so I hope the next chapters are worth the week! :)

Dean was pretty proud of himself this time—choosing a place near the Broad Institute, where Cas had finally told him his lab was, so that he wouldn’t have to be rushing. Cas normally didn’t have to go in on Tuesdays, Dean knew that by now, but today there was some kind of meeting he had to attend. Dean had picked out one of his favorite restaurants, too—Grotto wasn’t too fancy, or anything, it was just nice Italian, but it wasn’t a North End tourist trap. Benny had been the one to bring him here the first time, and that one was _picky._

So yeah, Dean mostly kept it for special occasions: their portions were Dean-sized, but because the service took for-freaking-ever, he only brought people he _liked_ here—Sam, Benny, Charlie; Ellen, when she was in town. It was kind of a weird space, with its tiny tables and cramped booths; they always kept the overheads down so low people could probably make out in the corners without so much as anyone at the next table noticing.

(Not that Dean was planning anything. He really wasn’t.)

But Cas’s tiny little smile when he came walking in and saw Dean waiting for him in a booth was a thing of beauty, the dim light be damned.

Sure, there was that moment in the middle of dinner when Cas asked him, curious and interested with his head tilted to the side, “Are you a steampunk aficionado?”

Dean swallowed his bite of short rib gnocchi and answered, honestly, “I guess, yeah.” Cas had already kind of figured out Dean’s nerdier hobbies—him being damned casual about the LARPing hadn’t fooled Cas for _shit_ , which Dean figured was probably par for the course when it came to a guy who mentored geeks professionally. “Why d’you ask?”

Cas pursed his lips, just a little. “The name of your bakery?” And when Dean stared at him in confusion, he made a little gesture with his hands like he was holding out something oblong, like a football. Then he sort of drifted that invisible football through the air for a bit.

Dean, completely and totally dumbstruck, realized it was supposed to be a blimp—a _zeppelin_ —about the same time Castiel’s lips twitched at the corners.

It was just a second. It could have been the lighting.

“You… _are_ kidding, right?” Dean didn’t want to admit there might be a little pleading in his voice. _Please_ let him be kidding. Some things were just dealbreakers.

“I only wish the lights were brighter. The look on your face is _excellent_ ,” Castiel told him, his expression and his voice completely flattened out into seriousness—for about a heartbeat before his smile broke free. “Of course I’m joking, Dean, _Ramble On_ and _Whole Lotta Love_ played in your car when you dropped me off at the Red Line.” His smile widened as he sat there, looking so goddamned pleased with his own _terrible, terrible_ joke, and announced happily, “But your expression is very precious.”

“You have a _twisted_ sense of humor, man, what is wrong with you?” Dean complained, pressing a hand to where he’d been just about to have a heart attack, but… _goddammit_. Now _he_ wished the lights were brighter, because Cas’s fucking _dimples._

It’d all been going pretty well, honestly.

Until it _really fucking hadn’t_.

Dean wondered if kicking at the brick wall behind him was too childish for a grown-ass man. He decided that it really was—even for a grown-ass man on a goddamned _fourth_ interrupted date.

Fucking _true mates,_ man.

(Literally fucking. _Ugh_.)

No-one not related was allowed back into the restaurant until the happy couple wasn’t locked together on the floor anymore, and _really ideally_ until everything was cleaned up and sanitized. (Yikes.) Dean seriously did not _want_ to go back in there until there weren’t any connected body parts involved or in view. So ordinarily he would have been just fine with leaving the premises.

Sure, he got it. It was all a very fucking exciting thing, Grotto already had a pretty nice date atmosphere, but now it was probably gonna be featured in one of those mates magazines and they’d get to put up the registered True Mates sticker in the window. Dean knew, _Bread Zeppelin_ had one of those stickers on the door, and for a while it’d gotten them a lot of attention. While Dean never asked, he was pretty sure they still got a couple of walk-ins a day of people who were just feeling hopeful—even though as far as he knew there was no evidence whatsoever that location made any difference.

So yeah, the whole promotional stickers thing was a total publicity stunt so people didn’t freak out at the idea of knowing someone had had sex on the floor or on a table or countertop or whatever, but Dean didn’t begrudge the restaurant the business they were probably going to get because of it.

Except for the fact that he and Cas had both given over their jackets to the coat check this time, and there hadn’t been time to grab them before they’d gotten hustled out. And yeah, ordinarily Dean would’ve just gone home and come back for his jacket another day… except he was so damned used to keeping his jacket on him and _not_ handing it over to someone else that _Baby’s_ keys were in his jacket inner pocket, and there was no way he was leaving those.

Cas, showing off that he might be just a little perfect after all, hadn’t suggested it. (He already knew Dean’s opinion on taking the T anywhere. They’d had _that_ conversation when Dean had offered to drop him off and Cas had told him ‘Porter Square Red Line.’ They’d probably never agree on it. So maybe not so perfect, but that was okay.)

Dean grunted in irritation, and jammed his cold hands back into his pockets. So much for trying to take Cas out somewhere a little classier, or something. _Fuck_. He knew he should have stuck to the normal kind of place he took someone on a date. Except Dean couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone for a fourth date with someone. Couldn’t remember the last time he’d _tried_.

Wait. First-slash-fourth date? Take four? Whatever.

“You getting the feeling that things are kind of escalating?” he sighed.

Cas tipped his head back and raised a—surprisingly bossy—eyebrow at Dean. Then he sighed in what looked like agreement. “I suppose nakedness being involved counts as an escalation.”

Dean stuck his tongue playfully into his cheek. “Wait, you mean it doesn’t for _you?_ ” Dean couldn’t unsee the sight of that alpha’s ass as she shucked her pants in front of the whole damned world. “This whole true mates thing is a total, I dunno, social gimmick, Cas,” he complained, chuckling. “It’s _still_ two people jumping each other in public.”

Cas, to Dean’s surprise, cocked his head, and looked surprised, both eyebrows up. (Cas did a lot of talking with his eyebrows, Dean realized.) He had his hands in the pockets of his slacks, too, and his shoulders rounded loosely.

Comfortable, Dean thought. It’d taken a good long while, but here he was, comfortable even though they were leaning against a brick wall and kept having to shift their feet because the sidewalk was slanted enough that it made balance really _un_ comfortable.

Cas looking that easy made a warm little bit of caramel melt in Dean’s belly.

“ _I_ think so,” Cas began, slowly. “But it’s an unpopular opinion that I think most people attribute to either my being beta or my being awkward.”

Dean blinked. “Wait. What?” Dean had actually been joking, but… “I mean, okay, first off, _fuck them,_ but… you don’t believe in true mates?” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the racket going on in the restaurant behind them. “What do you call that, then?”

Cas considered, leaning his shoulders back against the wall. He pulled his hands out of his pockets like he had something he wanted to say with them, but he decided against it—tucked both thumbs lightly into the belt loops of his slacks and shrugged a little. “I believe in biological imperatives,” he finally answered, with that quiet, serious deliberation that Dean was getting to really _like_.

“Oooh, talk dirty to me, angel,” Dean crooned.

Cas, to Dean’s delight, clamped his lips shut and turned _crimson_.

Man, it was so easy to make him blush. Dean wanted to do it _all the time_.

Dean laughed and brushed his shoulder companionably against Cas’s. They both waited out the loud bursts of cheering and toasts from inside the little basement Italian restaurant before either of them tried to talk again. “Alright, Professor,” he teased. “Teach me all about biological imperatives.”

“Not if you will mock me,” Cas told him, just slightly sulky in a way that made Dean want to press his thumb into the center of that full, pouty mouth and trace the seam where Cas didn’t seem to push his lips together all the way. Maybe tug down a little, catch the shiny bit that met the dryer skin—

Dean swallowed. “Not mocking,” he insisted.

Cas considered again, and Dean let him. It wasn’t a painful silence. “I don’t think there’s anything _wrong_ with the concept of true mates,” Cas told him, finally. “I just…” he frowned and tilted his chin upwards. There weren’t any stars to be seen, this far in the city, but in the not-quite-dark his profile as he looked into the sky was so damned _pure_. He huffed in frustration, and muttered, “Maybe I’m just not very romantic.”

“How’s that?” Dean asked, curiously. Cas just shrugged, a little, and Dean took that as his cue to keep going. “I mean, isn’t it a whole… I dunno, what’s it they call it? That perfect match sort of thing? I mean, yeah, I’m beta too, but I still think the idea is kind of nice.” Just ‘cause being beta meant that _Dean’s_ body was never gonna have that ‘oh here, the universe made this person just for you’ thing going on, that didn’t mean Dean couldn’t want that for Sammy, someday. Or Charlie, for that matter.

“It’s not that I think it _isn’t_ romantic,” Cas answered, with a small motion of one shoulder. “I just… I suppose I think the very intense biochemical process of it is… necessary, but not sufficient. If that makes sense?”

“Sorta?” Dean grimaced as someone inside cheered. “Though I’m not sure what you mean by ‘sufficient,’ Cas. Besides, I am pretty damned sure that it ain’t exactly romance driving that whole… mating in public thing.”

Dean sure as fuck would not want anyone and _especially_ not a family member watching him have sex, no matter how happy the occasion was, for one thing. And Dean _definitely_ did not want to be anywhere in the vicinity of any friends if it ever happened to them. They’d already had that conversation. Yeah, he’d soothe them down against his neck if he had to. Then blockers and filters and a quick trip to a nice hotel room for _everyone_ , huzzah.

Cas, to his surprise, nodded, once, and glanced sideways at Dean. “I know that biology can drive attraction and physical compatibility. Fertility, ruts, heats. Synchronization.” He shrugged. “I won’t say that that sort of thing doesn’t sound nice—of course it does. In the abstract, at least. But… does that make a partnership? Does that make a lifetime? I’m not sure.”

His smile was a little softer, Dean thought, and since he hadn’t expected one of Cas’s little smiles at all, much less one that came with the quiet, faraway dip of eyes, this one lodged like a splinter under Dean’s skin. Cas’s voice was lower than usual and just kind of _wistful_ when he said, “I think I’m a little more enamored with the idea of free will than I am with the idea of inevitability—even if fate is supposedly… ‘romantic.’” He made air quotes with a flick of one hand, then dropped it to his side.

Dean was still trying to swallow the shaky little lump that had come up and lodged in his throat, so the most eloquent thing he managed was, “Free… will?”

Because it would have been weird to blurt out ‘I’m sorry’ (Dean didn’t even know why he was _thinking that)_ and even more fucking _awkward_ to say ‘lemme hug you.’

Cas turned that quiet little smile at him, and _fuck_. Dean wasn’t prepared for the way Cas’s eyes still looked lapis in the little streetlamp, the soft lanterns outside Grotto. He really wasn’t.

“The idea that one’s perfect partner is a choice, a decision, not… biology,” Cas finished, quietly. Then, “But I _am_ a beta, and so.” He shrugged, like it didn’t matter.

Dean couldn’t help himself. He didn’t try. He reached out and fished his fingers through Cas’s. They were even colder than his own. He saw Cas suck in a little breath, and got ready to leap at least a few bricks away if Cas dropped his hand—

Cas’s thumb unlocked from his belt loop and he finished the weave of them interlacing, bringing their hands down to his side. Fingers squeezed Dean’s, careful and gentle, like an acknowledgment. Dean let out the air he hadn’t realized he’d held in.

It shouldn’t have been any warmer, holding hands. Dean probably should have felt kind of stupid, doing it. He really didn’t _do_ things like this.

But he didn’t let go. It was pretty comfortable.

He kind of wondered when being quiet with Cas had started being comfortable, too.

“Hey, um…” Dean had to clear his throat when his voice got stuck, and it came out a little deeper than he meant it to. “What _do_ you research, anyway?” He thought Cas might actually tell him now. Because Charlie still wouldn’t, and Dean was fucking _not_ going to Google a guy he’d already been seeing for the better part of two months.

“Scent hormones,” Doctor Castiel Novak told him, in a voice like perfectly aged whiskey.

Dean choked, hard enough that Cas let go of his hand to pat carefully at his back, looking confused by Dean’s asphyxiation on nothing at all (shut up, Sammy, he could too beat Charlie at Scrabble sometimes. Like… once.)

“What?” Dean demanded, finally. “Wait, when I said ‘tell me about biologic imperatives,’ are you telling me you _actually_ —"

Castiel blinked at him like he didn’t understand Dean’s problem.

“What the Hell, Cas!” Dean threw both of his hands up in the air. “I thought you said your research was _boring!_ That sounds like the last fucking thing in the _world_ from boring!”

That got a little smile out of Cas, but he didn’t lift his hand from between Dean’s shoulder blades, and his palm wasn’t cold anymore. “Dean, I’m a Ph.D., not a physician. My lab works with presentation hormones that are produced by _cell cultures_. It’s chemical reactions and test tubes and laboratory conditions.” He chuckled, like the face Dean was making was funny. It probably was. “I don’t go around sniffing people any more than people who study sex hormones go around jabbing their postdocs with injections. Besides, you _know_ I have almost no sense of smell.”

Dean tried to decide whether he wanted to laugh or punch Cas on the shoulder. Shit, he sounded _completely serious_. “Pretty sure that’s not the point.”

Cas rolled his eyes. He actually _rolled his eyes_ , so sarcastic for a second that Dean honestly stared, holy shit. Then Cas took away the hand that he had resting on Dean’s back, and it was a hard bet which of those Dean wanted back more—that little press of warmth or that little spark of sass. “Dean, my last publication was on how humidity and the age of the omega correlate to the molecular weight of the hormones produced during heat, and how that affects scent carry during different seasons. It was considered a rather brilliant combination of results obtained by gel-plate dispersion via electrophoresis with mathematical modeling to simulate weather patterns.”

Okay, so maybe it _was_ kind of the point. Except, shit, even though Dean hadn’t understood one word of that, hearing Cas talk _that much_ was petting up and down his spine again and kind of giving Dean half a hard-on. “You’re not gonna get me to believe you don’t work in some kind of freaky biohazard containment unit, Cas.”

“Oh. I do,” Cas told him earnestly. Dean blinked. “You have nothing to worry about, though. We have all the emergency cleansing washes, of course. But we haven’t had a spill or incident since before I came on faculty, there’s essentially no risk of contamination or containment break.”

Yep, he’d completely missed that Dean wasn’t worried about that at _all_. “Jesus, Cas, that’s all still pretty fucking awesome.” He’d already known that Cas was smart—maybe didn’t have half the sniff-and-social skills God gave guinea pigs, but smart as Hell.

Castiel shrugged, easily. “Safety regulations mean that the degree of scent-protective gear that alphas and omegas have to wear is bulky and prohibitive—so most people who choose my lab _are_ beta. Besides, most of us are also quite nose-blind.” His lips turned, and there was a ruefulness to it, almost? Then those pretty, pretty eyes _laughed,_ just a little, even though his lips didn’t move any further—in a way, it felt like a secretive little tickling finger poking into Dean’s side. “We still _do_ have professional-grade filters and blocker patches and the like stocked in abundance—I always used to bring some around with me just in case of emergencies, but…”

This time, Dean didn’t bother trying to keep in his just slightly sarcastic guffaw.

“You think I should start carrying them again?” Cas asked, and his eyebrows did that thing where they were carrying the conversation.

“Fuck, man, you better, I think at this rate I’m gonna be stuck going on these weird half-dates with you _forever_!” Dean joked. “You’re some kind of a weird scent hormone magnet. Hell, now you’re telling me you’re _professionally_ a weird scent hormone magnet.”

Castiel glared at him. “I am _professionally sure_ that no such thing exists—”

Dean pointed a thumb at the window just behind him, and as if he’d timed it, a very loud moan almost rattled the glass.

“…but I will take it under advisement,” Cas finished, wincing.

*_*_*_*

“So… you were right, kiddo. He’s sweet.”

“Ah-HAH!”

“He told me what he does for the big H.”

“Hell yeaaaah, it’s fuckin’ cool, right? He’s kind of hardcore. You know his lab developed the reagent for those color-changing blockers, right?”

“ _What_? No, he didn’t—shit, _really?_ —okay, coming back to that later. Charlie, he’s also a complete dork. A _nerdy_ dork. He made a _zeppelin_ joke.”

“And you’re Mister Cool? Before you answer, please recall that the picture on your Facebook profile is the wedding cake you made in the shape of the Millennium Falcon. Your profile. As in, not Bread Zeppelin’s. _Yours_.”

“Shut up, that thing was _awesome_. Did you know he doesn’t believe in true mates?”

“Wait, what? Deep. Uh… okay, that’s… _weird_ , but… not to be insensitive, Dean, but you’re also a beta, so… why’s that a problem…?”

“Well, ’cause judging from last night, they obviously believe in him?”

~to be continued~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, who was surprised by Castiel's job reveal? I suspect it was just Dean...
> 
> But they're talking! They're actually talking! I know! And Cas's sense of humor is _so awful_! (I shouldn't be so excited about this, I realize, I did this to them...)


	5. Favorite Unicorn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean was pretty sure he must like Castiel, because there was no way he’d ever let himself be caught in _definitely fucking Cambridge_ otherwise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very mild TW in the endnotes. I don't THINK it's anything that will bother anyone, but since this story is otherwise unrepentant fluff, better safe than sorry.
> 
> Less serious: more food porn ahoy. You've been warned...

If anyone had told Dean he’d find himself across the river again not a month after the last time, in an area that he couldn’t even call Camberville because it was _definitely fucking Cambridge_ , Dean would have laughed. If they’d told him he’d be voluntarily looking down at a menu that called itself New American but at least half the ingredients weren’t anything that even pretended to come from this continent _?_ Dean would have dunked them headfirst into a vat of sourdough starter.

(Hell, _Dean_ didn’t know what a gribine was, and he’d studied this shit professionally.)

This wasn’t like that white-tablecloth Number 9 place that The Dick had taken Dean, though. This place wasn’t exactly fancy, except it _was,_ in that way he could smell Manhattans and Old Fashioneds at the bar and truffle oil from the open kitchen. On a weeknight like tonight, it wasn’t full, and the diners were all evenly spaced out, but even on a Tuesday there were at least three people wearing alpha enhancers, date night for sure.

And over in the middle of the bar on the other side of the restaurant, wearing enhancer so thick that Dean wrinkled his nose from the doorway? None other than Richard “Dick” Roman, holding court over a young blond omega guy who was practically sucking on The Dick’s tie. Huh.

Wow. That was… really fucking gross. Talk about bullets dodged.

Then Dean turned and smiled at the pretty Harvard professor who was sitting across the table from _him,_ and pretty much completely forgot about The Dick. Jesus, Dean Winchester knew when he was just the luckiest sonofabitch in the world, make no mistake about that.

Cas was still wearing a suit, a little crumpled like he’d worked all day in it, and he stuck out pretty damned cutely with how almost everyone else here was trying for either Tom Ford or just that little bit of ‘yeah I don’t care how much things cost’ casual. He still looked like he’d forgotten to shave this morning and today only half of his hair was sticking up—his left side, though, and Cas wasn’t left-handed as far as Dean had ever seen, so why…? Yeah, a mystery. Dean’s fingers were just itching to smooth him down or ruffle him up or _something_.

Cas had loosened his tie when they sat down, and watching one long pointer finger crook into the knot and slowly draw it a few inches down had lit Dean up hungry for more than dinner. Hell, for that sight _alone_ Dean would sit here in the world’s most opinionated zip code and desperately try to remember what a sauce maltaise was.

(Hey, it’d been a while! How did people who _hadn’t_ gone to culinary school do this, anyway?)

The menu didn’t look bad, though. Nowhere that had crispy fried pork ribs at the top of the appetizer list could be _bad_. Dean would give Cas that.

Cas gave him a smile so careful Dean blinked—Hell, Cas hadn’t smiled at him like that since their Date… part 2? Two fifths? (Dean didn’t pretend he was good with fractions, that was why he used grams rather than pounds and ounces when he did his bakery measuring, dammit.) Then Cas reached one hand across the table and all of the little hairs on Dean’s forearms jumped at that. The table was still small enough that with as tall as they both were, their knees bumped under the table.

Shit, this was all making him feel like a goddamned adolescent all over again.

But Cas didn’t touch _him,_ he put his fingertips on the little paper menu in Dean’s hand and pressed it back to the table. And asked, more quietly than he normally did, “May I surprise you?”

Dean blinked.

He was picky about food. Well, no, he _wasn’t_ picky about food, that wasn’t true at all, but Dean dealt with food for a living. He’d try anything, yeah, but Dean also knew what he liked. He’d already sort of decided on the smoked pork confit. Boudin red chile sauce? Hell yeah. Maybe Cas had a thing for places with variations on sausage gravy and biscuits. Dean had no problems with that _at all_.

Fuck, Cas’s look at him was so _hopeful_.

“Yeah, okay,” Dean agreed, maybe just a _little_ warily, and put the menu away from himself.

The little curve of Cas’s smile, lips a little parted, made it worth it when he held up his hand for their server, and fuck, watching him very intentionally try to talk to her softly enough that Dean wouldn’t hear? _Jesus fucking Christ_ he was adorable. And he didn’t even need prompting or pushing anymore to start telling Dean about his week.

“…Cas, man, I dunno.” Dean twirled his fork around his thumb and grinned. “From what I’m hearin’, I am pretty sure your senior postdoc’s trying to get into her hot PI’s pants, should I be worried?”

“ _Dean!_ ” Cas looked _scandalized_ , all blue eyes and pink cheeks. “What— _no—_ I realize Meg is a little… irreverent at times, but that hardly—”

“Dude!” Dean leaned forward and rested his forearms on the table. His calf rubbed Cas’s with the friction of denim to slacks. “She calls you her _favorite unicorn_.”

“It’s… it’s a metaphor?” and the way Cas’s voice squeaked up at the end like even _he_ wasn’t sure he could say that with any certainty had Dean laughing even harder.

“Yeah, for _what?_ ”

Cas was saved from having to answer that by their little blonde server huffing up next to them carrying—

Dean stared as the plate was lowered down in front of him. He barely caught sight of the bottle of beer being set down beside it. He was so focused on it he didn’t even _see_ her put Cas’s order down in front of him.

_What—_

A burger. The patty was nearly a sphere, piled higher than his fist, pale cheese rolling off the side in a melting drip. It was surrounded by golden-brown potato wedges speckled with fancy salt. There were two teeny cups of bright pink pickle shreds almost toppling off the edge of the plate, a bigger one of ketchup that Dean could already _smell_ hadn’t come out of a bottle.

Their server—an alpha, if Dean’s nose had it right, but no nametag, because right, this was that kind of place, beamed. “Craigie Burger,” she announced. “Sesame milk bun cooked on the grill. Your patty today is brisket, short rib, sirloin tips and bone marrow—cooked medium rare, of course, with a hint of miso. Done in the oven and finished on the plancha. The cheddar is from Shelburne Farm and the burger vinaigrette, and red wine vinegar pickles with horseradish are all in-house. And, of course, our homemade mace ketchup.”

Dean couldn’t tear his eyes away from the gloriousness in front of him, but he still blinked, slowly. Okay, there was nothing there that sounded like anything other than the best thing in the whole damned world, but… “Burger vinaigrette?” That sounded like an oxymoron. (Hah. See? Scrabble.)

The girl laughed. “I mean, it’s called that, but it’s basically the drippings and scrapings from the plancha where the burgers cook, mixed up with some other good stuff.”

“Holy _shit_ ,” Dean marveled, sitting back in his chair just to take it all in—the burger, Cas beaming blue-eyed at him across the table and looking downright pleased with himself, dear fucking _God_ it was a good life.

Yeah, maybe this was the kind of place where the person at the table a few down from theirs looked dirty at him for that kind of language, since Dean hadn’t exactly said that softly. But Dean also didn’t care, because _holy shit._

“You said it!” the little blonde practically shone at them, hugging her tray to her chest as she turned towards Castiel. “That was smart of you to call earlier, Professor, you got the last. We’re normally out by this time of the night.”

“I’m glad I did.” Cas’s smile back was broad and a little goofy and so damned genuine that for a weird blinding second Dean was _jealous_ he was pointing it at this little big-eyed alpha-bopper. “Thank you, Muriel.”

“I’ll be back to check on you in a bit. Enjoy!” she chirped, and bounced off.

Dean pointed at his plate, then tore his eyes off the burger to look back up at Cas. “That wasn’t on the menu. I know it wasn’t,” he accused. Hell, he was tempted to call Muriel back and ask her for the menu just so he could check, Dean would _not_ have missed that.

That shy, contented little smile again. “No. They only make a few of them a night, and normally they only serve them on the bar side, but…” Cas moved his shoulders in a delicate expression of ‘it isn’t important’ that Dean was starting to recognize.

Actually, now that Dean thought about it, the glare that the omega at the table next to them was pointing in their direction was at the _burger,_ not at Dean.

“Okay. Seriously, Cas, how’d you swing that?” Dean demanded. “Because I am almost sure this is not the kind of place where you can _reserve_ one of their burgers.” Hell, he would have put money on this not being the place that knew how to _pronounce_ ‘burger.’

“Oh. Ah…” to Dean’s surprise, Cas’s gaze ducked away. “Well… actually, that’s… it’s a bit of a story.”

Dean frowned. Cas didn’t _have_ ‘bit of a story’ stories. “Okay?”

Cas peeked up at Dean through his dark lashes. “Their, ah, head bartender met his true mate in one of my freshman introductory classes…?”

No. Fucking. _Way._

Dean opened his mouth. The giggle flew out before he could stop it.

Castiel’s squinty annoyance was so hilarious and irresistible that if there hadn’t been this burger in front of Dean he might’ve reached all the way across the table to grab Cas by the collar and yank him over it and into Dean’s lap. So it was a good thing it _was_ there, because Cas was tall and sturdy and Dean… wasn’t actually a hundred percent sure he was strong enough to do that.

“ _Don’t_ say it,” Cas growled.

Dean raised both of his hands in surrender, but he was laughing out loud for real, now, his head thrown back. “Oh my God, _Cas._ ” He settled down, mostly because if Cas’s face got any redder he was going to match that wine he was drinking. “Hey, what would you have done if I didn’t like burgers?”

Cas considered, very seriously. “I’d have seriously reconsidered every moment I’ve spent with you,” he told Dean, grave as confession. “And then I’d have eaten it.”

Dean snorted. Alright, he should have seen that one coming. Except not, because Cas’s sass was like the damned Spanish Inquisition. “Wanna split?” Dean invited, gesturing at the massive expression of food porn that was sitting in front of him.

Cas’s surprised smile back at him was _brilliant_. “Oh! Yes, please.” He nudged his own wide-bottomed bowl of entrée in Dean’s direction.

Then Dean looked across the table, and realized that Cas must have ordered the pork confit that Dean had been eyeing in the first place.

Yup, they were gonna make it to goddamned dessert today if it _killed them_.

(In retrospect, thinking that? Dean really knew better than to challenge God that way, because God could be a _fucking douche_.)

He blamed the red chili sauce that they put on the pork confit, in retrospect. There wasn’t much that could blast out Dean’s nose—he really was sensitive—but really good, heavy spicy stuff could. And this was all of the above—good and heavy _and_ spicy. The burger itself was fantastic, bright pink on the inside—he could smell the miso paste in it when he cut it, which, okay, that was _really_ clever—but the sight of Cas licking his fingers over his own half of it was nearly as good.

It was probably the best time that Dean had ever had on a date, whether first or fifth, or whatever this was. With chili spice in his nose and the soft, hoarse sound of Cas laughing in his ears, he reached across the table and stole another crunchy bit of confit off Cas’s plate and popped it into his mouth.

“Oh, you will regret that,” Cas told him, smiling, and there was a wicked edge to it that made Dean’s thighs go tense under the table.

“Promise?” Dean answered, leaning in.

Dean was having a good time, and he just didn’t pay attention before it was too late. In fact, he didn’t realize it until Cas broke off midway through a story about his little angels—Dean was almost sure he was being sarcastic when he called the members of the Harvard Radcliffe Science Fiction Association that, but it was hard to tell sometimes with him—and looked over Dean’s shoulder, frowning and looking a little confused.

Dean took a deep drink of his water and his nose cleared.

Then all the fucking _scent_ hit him—not the sour vinegar of rage, not the fermented roses of heat.

To be honest, rut didn’t smell that _bad_ to him, most of the time. It wasn’t necessarily comfortable, because when it got strong it could be astringent enough to dry out his mouth and make his eyes sting, but Dean could see how some other people might like it in certain situations. It sharpened the senses. It was kind of like how most people liked the pillowy marshmallowy-meringue scent of pregnancy.

This was unpleasantly sharp, though, like the feeling of sniffing rubbing alcohol. It was enough to make his sinuses swell up, and it was definitely an alpha who’d just hit rut _hard_. Dean coughed, and tried to clear his nose with another gulp of water.

Ordinarily, Dean would have just sighed and hunched in and been temporarily annoyed. Rut wasn’t rage and it wasn’t heat. Yeah, sure, someone going into rut in public could still be _annoying_ , especially to the omegas in the room—Dean was still glad he hadn’t been born one, he’d take needing lube any day over spontaneously getting wet at the smell of an alpha rut. But a lot of omegas didn’t even bother to put on their filters, since they didn’t lose their shit about it the way alphas did over heat. (Charlie liked to propose this as evidence that omegas were a more evolved presentation subtype. Huh, he’d have to ask Cas what he thought about that.)

As far as presentation fuckery went, this was about as minor as it got. Most alphas were responsible about their patches. A good blocker on the poor rutting bastard and a bunch of lit candles to burn away the stink, and they’d all be able to go back to their dinner in peace.

Except now with his nose adjusting, Dean _knew the smell_ under the rut. _What the—_

“Sir? Sir, you _can’t_ , what are you—" a voice behind Dean arced up.

Cas’s eyes were suddenly confused and shocked and alarmed. Both of his eyebrows bunched abruptly as he peered over Dean’s shoulder. “Dean—”

Halfway through Dean twisting around to check out what was going on, a hand grabbed his hair and wrenched Dean’s head back _hard_. He didn’t even have time to react before someone _stuck their face_ into the side of his neck and _inhaled_.

His nose was so full of the sharp bite of _rut_ mingled with the heavy musk of alpha enhancers that Dean retched—for just a moment. Just a moment. Then he had his hand in sweaty, short dark hair, crunchy and sticky with some kind of fucking gel, and Dean _yanked_. Hairs probably came off in his fist, because someone _yowled,_ and it wasn’t Dean.

Then Dean was on his feet, the chair crashing to the floor behind him. The silence in the restaurant was so total, or maybe that was just the silence ringing through Dean’s ears. Someone whimpered. A door slammed with a crash like cymbals. He was looking at Richard “Dick” Roman, the whites of those brown eyes bloodshot, mouth open and swollen as he panted.

“Mine,” Dick crooned. _“Mine_.”

Then he licked his lips, took a step in Dean’s direction, and Dean didn’t hesitate. He _swung_.

It wasn’t that Dean didn’t have a temper. It wasn’t even that he didn’t get being _mad_. He got mad plenty. He might not have alpha rage to give everyone the heebie-jeebies, but he didn’t need that shit to take someone down. The moment it became clear he was gonna stay neutral, Mary Winchester, proud beta mom, had hugged him and told him he could be whoever and whatever he wanted to be: he was a beta. He wasn’t less, he was _infinite._ He could have whatever he wanted as his presentation present.

Dean, twenty years ago, had asked for cooking lessons and boxing classes.

He’d been _very fucking good_ at both.

Dick Roman went down with one punch, laying his fucking Tom Ford-suited ass out on the floor.

But with the rut on him, even sprawled out on the floor Dick Roman’s smile stayed wide and white with too many teeth. The grin didn’t slacken as Dick picked himself back up, brushed off his slacks and straightened his jacket. With blood running down his chin from a clean split straight center, it made him look fucking insane in a way that ran chills up Dean’s back

The sharpness of rut mixing with blood was strong and harsh enough to tighten around Dean’s gag reflex again. Both of Dean’s shoulders tightened as he set himself up for a second punch. If Dick tried to touch him again Dean was putting him back down and he wasn’t going to be getting back up.

Cas spoke up from where he was still seated at their table. “Excuse me,” he said, gently, apparently to no-one in particular. The shocked look cleared, slowly, from his face, leaving something infinitely calm behind.

Dean couldn’t have said, exactly, why the furious white noise ricocheting through the back of his head stopped at that, but it did. Maybe _that_ was how it felt when someone got beta-calmed—except Cas wasn’t touching him. Cas wasn’t touching anyone.

Dean’s nerdy biochemistry professor picked up his little cloth napkin from his lap and folded it in two deliberate motions of his palms. He rose to his feet, slowly, carefully pushing the chair back so it didn’t scrape, then stepping out from it. He fixed his electric gaze on Dick Roman with a force that had _weight_.

The two of them could have looked sort of similar, Dean thought, distantly. Sort of. Dark hair, smart eyes, nice cheekbones. Plain black suit, plain light shirt.

But Dean’s first impression of Cas hadn’t been wrong. It really hadn’t.

They didn’t look _anything_ fucking alike at all.

“You’re making a scene,” Cas told the fancy CEO in the five thousand dollar suit, almost gently. Roman had probably three, four inches on him. Castiel Novak did not look like he gave a fuck. “Step away.”

Roman’s eyes bulged, and his laugh was ugly. “Or what, little beta?” He licked his lips, and now he had blood on his teeth, too. “Do you have any idea who I _am?_ ”

“You will show Dean the respect that is due him,” Castiel continued, still equally as quiet, as if Richard Roman had said nothing at all. “Or there will be consequences.”

That was all he said in his deep, raspy voice, very softly, like faraway thunder. To an angry, horny, rutting C-suite whatever alpha.

The angry, horny, rutting C-suite alpha took one look at the nerdy beta biochemist, Cas’s chin up with his blue eyes blazing, and stumbled just one tiny step back.

To Dean’s shock. To everyone’s shock. Hell, to _Dick’s_ own shock, as he looked wide-eyed down at his own shiny, shiny shoes like he thought they’d gone dancing away without his permission.

Cas inclined his chin, like an acknowledgment. Like he hadn’t expected anything different at all.

Someone wheezed.

Fuck. Dean was in _love_.

Dean cleared his throat, then again, and took the two steps up to match Cas. _No_ his knees weren’t wobbly, he wasn’t a damned omega in heat watching some alpha pose, but… shit, that was… something else.

“Dean, are you alright?” Castiel asked, not looking away from where Dick Roman wasn’t looking at Dean anymore, he was staring at Cas like Cas was a bluebird that had suddenly grown laser eyes.

“Yeah, Cas, I’m just fine, I—”

A tall, older alpha in a bright purple suit and tie came rushing up, with high, angry bright highlights to his scent and a patch already going from red to blue on his neck. His thick beard was almost bristling. “ _Sir_ ,” he said, and there was a growl still underlying his voice. He didn’t touch anyone, but he did physically step in front of Cas and Dean, his back to them, and both arms out to his sides, fingers spread as he alpha-postured. Dean heard the snarl in his voice as he addressed The Dick. “I’m Cain Robertson, I’m the manager here, and I don’t know _what_ you think you’re—”

“He’s _mine_ ,” Dick sneered, twisting to the side to try and step around him. “He’s mine, I had him first, and—”

“You are putting on a patch, and I am calling the police,” the manager told The Dick. He didn’t turn his eyes away from the alpha, who was huffing and red-eyed and starting to put out sour notes on top of the rut and blood, now, and _shit_ , Dean’s nose was burning. “Don’t make me put you down, sir. I _will do it_.”

“Do you want to go?” Cas asked him, quietly, and he looked over and behind Dean’s shoulder for a second, making a small gesture with his hands. “Let’s go.”

Yeah. Dean really did. He just… yeah. He wanted out of here.

He jumped at a very careful touch of his arm. Their petite server had a patch on, too, hers fully blue already, and she looked like she might be about to cry. She had both of their coats draped over her arms. “Sir, Professor,” she whispered. “You don’t have to—I’m so sorry. We’re not—"

“It’s okay. Not your fault.” Dean managed a smile, and took the armful from her. “Murphy’s fucking law, trust me.”

Main Street was so quiet compared to the ringing in Dean’s ears when he and Cas finally made their way out the door in a horrible silence, flanked by their little escort of staff. He sort of heard them telling them to please come back, please, a private chef’s table, _so sorry,_ but he barely heard it. He just _itched_ to wipe the sharp spicy sweat off the side of his neck. Hell, he just wanted to go home. He just wanted to _shower_.

Hell, he wanted to fucking hold hands with Cas.

For the first time in a long time, Dean didn’t have an urge to laugh like a damned fool as they stood outside. He wasn’t sure who started walking first, but then they were, silent, trailing their way side by side down Main Street with the occasional MIT student dodging past them. There was a cold metal bench-seat in a little v of concrete surrounded by stone chess boards, a tiny little miniature Cambridge park, and Dean thought of sitting down on it, but he wasn’t a hundred percent sure he’d stand up again after. He leaned his hip against the armrest instead and breathed.

 _Fuck_.

He didn’t know if he was disgusted or disappointed. He didn’t know if he was embarrassed or _angry_. All of it, maybe. Fuck, they’d been having such a _good_ time, and why did he and Cas have to keep _dealing_ with all of this fucking presentation bullshit—

When he looked up, Cas was looking at him worriedly and holding out a little folded satchel, like a pack of tissues. Dean took it from him on autopilot, confused—

Scent-eliminating wipes. Dean blinked, but he tore the packet open hurriedly and scrubbed gratefully at the side of his neck. Once the sharp stink was out of his nose and his neck was wet and cold, he could think a little clearer, and he looked at the wrapper in his hand.

These… didn’t look commercial.

He realized, and blinked. “Wait. Did you take me seriously the last time, when…” Dean looked up. “Cas… do you have blockers in your pockets, too?”

Cas looked a little sheepish. Just a little bit, though. “And filters. Probably stronger than whatever they have at the restaurant,” he admitted. “But I didn’t think it would go well if _I_ insisted.”

Honestly, Dean was not sure about that at all. He’d _never_ seen an alpha in rut step back _just_ from a beta posturing before. Hell, not even from _himself,_ even Dean normally had to flash teeth or snarl, and he was not exactly a small or unscary guy.

From somewhere, Dean felt a little smile puff up onto his lips. “Cas, uh,” he started, and turned towards his date. He took a deep breath. He felt steadier, now, with Cas looking up at him like that—slow and careful. Deliberate, because he really was. “Anyone ever told you you’re kind of a badass, sometimes?”

It was true, too, so Dean didn’t expect Castiel to just kind of _deflate._

“I’m so _sorry_ , Dean, I didn’t mean… I have a little bit of a temper, and something of a savior complex, I’m told,” Cas wrinkled his nose a little, and he looked tired and woeful in a way that made Dean just kinda want to hug him or kiss the _fuck_ out of him, or maybe both at the same time. “I am aware you can take care of yourself—I could see that—and I’m sorry.”

“What for?” Dean really had no idea.

“Interfering.” Cas sighed. “I couldn’t help myself, but that’s no excuse. It’s all very unbecoming, I know.”

‘Unbecoming.’ _Hah!_ Only Cas. Dean snorted, and reached out to sneak a hand around Cas’s hip, giving him a careful little pat. Thought about pulling him closer. “You kidding?” This time, his smile actually felt real. “Fucking _hot_ , was what that was.”

Cas, to Dean’s delight, blushed bright red again.

He probably thought Dean was teasing. Dean really wasn’t, this time.

“I’m truly sorry I ruined things,” Cas mumbled, looking away.

Wait, what? What the fuck? “Number one, you didn’t do _anything_ wrong. Number two, nothing’s ruined,” Dean told him, and squeezed the hand that he had on Cas’s waist. He felt a little surprised jump next to him. Cas straightened his shoulders, but he didn’t pull away. Or at least, he didn’t pull away for about thirty seconds of nibbling on his own lower lip in a way that made Dean stare greedily and wonder if maybe Cas would let him take over doing that if he asked _really_ nicely.

Then… Cas did pull away, and Dean blinked, the side of his body and the crook of his arm suddenly colder than he’d meant them to be. _Huh?_ He let his arm drop back to his side as Cas put one careful step of distance between them and turned to face him. Traffic rolled quietly behind him, cruising down Main Street, lights silhouetting off the edge of his ugly trench coat.

“I was _jealous._ And I had no right. You keep having to do this,” Cas told him, quietly. “Over and over. I don’t think you should have to. None of this is _your_ fault, after all.”

Dean blinked. “Have… to?” he frowned. “Cas, what?”

“I think even Charlie can’t deny you truly made a good faith effort, through all these disturbances.” He heard the click of Cas’s swallow, the way he was looking straight over Dean’s right shoulder, now, rather than right at Dean, the way he so often did. “I’ll talk to her. If you like. You don’t have to… you can stop.”

“ _What_?” Dean repeated, blankly. “Cas, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Castiel glanced at him, once, just a flick of his gaze sideways, and his eyes were quiet and bruised. But he looked at Dean for too long—too long even for _Cas,_ his gaze so intent that Dean felt his eyes water because he was afraid to _blink._

And this time Dean actually _felt_ Cas pulling his gaze away, looking across the street through the small, dark park, the rounded arches of metal chairs. His back and shoulders were straight and proud.

“You told me, Dean,” he said, softly. “You were very honest from the beginning. One uninterrupted date. That was your deal with Charlie. Wasn’t it? Then you can be rid of me. I’ve tried to make this not an onerous experience for you, truly, but…”

Dean opened his mouth, horrified and indignant. Why the fuck would Cas even _say_ something like that? Why would—

Then he closed his mouth. Swallowed.

Shit. Those _were_ words out of Dean’s mouth.

He _had_ said that, hadn’t he. He really had, and more than once, over and over, a bunch of different ways—to this shy, beautiful guy.

And of _course_ Cas would’ve thought he was serious. Of _course_ he had, because Cas had told him from the very beginning that he worried about how he was with people.

Cas was fucking _awesome_ —he got Dean’s jokes about yeast and looked so damned pretty when he blushed that Dean wanted to nibble on him. He knew too much about scents he couldn’t even smell and didn’t know when eye contact was too much. He _still_ said completely awkward things at completely random times. Dean wanted to say he didn’t mind Cas’s staring anymore, but he sort of _did_ mind _,_ because looking into those eyes made Dean want to grab Cas by the tie and haul him right into Dean’s lap, pretty much all the time.

But it wasn’t like Dean had ever _told_ him any of that.

Of course Cas had believed it, because the first time Dean had said he just wanted to get this over with, he _had_ been completely serious.

Fuck, Dean was such an _asshole_.

“No,” Dean told him, bluntly. Then he winced, because that wasn’t really honest, either. “I mean… yes, that…” and he trailed off, because he didn’t know what to _say._ _Yeah, the first time I had to be bribed to go out with you, the second time I had to be threatened, but every other time I made the joke about it I was just kidding? _

Even though all that was _true,_ when he thought back to what he’d said—every single damned time—and the way Cas had just _smiled_ at him—

“ _Cas_ ,” he finally said, helplessly.

Cas looked down at his hands and he sighed, softly. “I don’t think I can do this anymore, Dean,” he told him, in his quiet whiskey rumble. “I enjoy your company a little too much, and that’s hardly fair to you.” He lifted his head, gave Dean that sweet, sad little smile that Dean recognized now, fuck, _fuck._ And like the massive dork that he was, Cas stuck out his hand. “Thank you. All the interruptions aside, I have had a wonderful time.”

Dean’s heart clenched. Jesus, one of them was the brave one here, and it wasn’t Dean.

Dean reached out, but he didn’t take Cas’s outstretched hand—he closed his fingers around the tails of Cas’s loosened tie, steadied his hip against the armrest behind him, and _yanked_. Reeled Cas in by that little bit of silk, bracing as Cas stumbled against him with a throaty yelp, a surprisingly solid run of his body all along the front of Dean’s. Caught him around the waist with one arm, and held him in.

“Dude,” Dean murmured, grinning at Cas’s wide-eyed stare up at him. “No way. You’re not allowed to dump me before we finish at least _one_ damned date.”

Cas’s dry, plush lips were just as soft as he’d imagined they’d be. Dean had meant to keep the kiss… respectful. Polite? He honestly had. But the soft flick of Cas’s tongue tentatively pressing against the seam of his mouth? Well, that was all kinds of respectful in a different way, too, and Dean wasn’t about to say ‘no’ to that. He opened for it.

 _Fuck_. Cas kissed _exactly_ like he talked. So careful at first, a little shy, but once he got going, _very_ deliberate—one hand coming up and finding its way to the back of Dean’s neck, not gripping, but holding, fingers cradling the base of Dean’s skull. Dean’s breath punched out of him in a sharp little whine at the press.

Cas licked into him in a way that was so completely meticulous—not like he was trying to count Dean’s tonsils, but like he was mapping every section of his mouth bit by bit to find out which he liked best.

So, of course, Dean had to return the favor.

He’d hazily decided on either the clever, gentle tip of Cas’s tongue or the soft, wet little patch on the inside of his bottom lip ( _just_ as nice as he’d always imagined it would be) when _air_ started to become a real issue.

He didn’t want to break them, but Cas finally made that decision for them, ducking his head back downwards, Dean’s lips swiping rough and wet up his cheek. He was panting. They both were.

“Yeah. Mmm.” And Dean couldn’t help himself, he ducked down for another sharp little bite of kiss anyway. “I knew you were smarter than that. Right, Cas?” Dean didn’t pretend that his own voice wasn’t about half an octave deeper than it normally was, with a rasp in it that made him sound more like _Cas_ than himself.

They were in public, Dean reminded himself. There was gonna be no grinding against him with just the armrest of a bench for support. _Fuck,_ he was thinking about that now, though.

Castiel was flushed all the way to his ears, his eyes were just a tiny rime of blue surrounding round, dark pupils, and his lips were parted and they definitely weren’t dry anymore. “What am I smarter than?” he managed, blankly, and if Dean’s voice was deep and hoarse right, Cas’s was an Old Fashioned, bourbon and bitters and a coarse sugar cube. “I don’t feel very intelligent right now.”

Oh, God, this guy was gonna make Dean want to kiss him all over again. He chuckled. “Y’know what?” Dean proclaimed. “Going out’s not working, for us. Hell, with our luck, the next time one of _us_ is gonna go into heat or something.”

Castiel narrowed his eyes just slightly in thought. “But we’re betas,” he finally answered, after considering for _way_ too long.

Some months ago, Dean would have bought it. He really would have. But from this close, Dean got all the details of how Cas couldn’t hide the way the edges of his eyes creased and his cheeks tightened before he flattened the corners of his mouth back down, or the way he opened his eyes just a little big and too blue.

“You’re really terrible at keeping a straight face.” Dean kept his hand right where it was, holding Cas against him, trench coat and all, breathing the same sharp autumn air. Just in case Cas got any more stupid ideas about Dean not wanting to be right where he was.

“I am excellent at it,” Cas told him, with a huff. That annoyed look probably would have gone to better effect if his cheeks still hadn’t been completely kissed with pink.

Dean grinned and lowered his head just enough to rest their foreheads together. _Fuck,_ he really did enjoy him. “You keep telling yourself that, sweetheart,” he said, mostly just so he could get Cas to wrinkle his nose at him. “Look, come over. Let’s try this another way. Next week, Monday night—let’s meet at my house. You bring drinks, I’ll make dinner.”

He knew what he wanted to say. Knew what he wouldn’t, _Yeah, I like you, too. I like you a lot, I wanna see where we’re going from here_, but the words just wouldn’t come. At his very center of centers, dating was easy, laughing about it was easier, but being serious about it was butterflies in the belly and white noise through his ears like a _fucking panic attack_.

“And dessert?” Cas asked like he was honestly curious.

Dean _laughed,_ and there went all of Dean’s butterflies, exploding in little white puffs of late autumn condensation. Cas was _so_ damned worth it.

“Oh, I think I can manage that,” he drawled—then winked. “If you’re nice.”

He was _never_ gonna get tired of that nuclear blush.

*_*_*_*

“I’m afraid to ask.”

“Two words, Charlene: Dick Roman. Actually, no, wait, there’s a third: rut.”

“…oh shit, I’m never getting orange blossom morning buns again, am I.”

~to be continued~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: someone being an asshole in rut on a night out and a few punches get thrown.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's been following along on this ride, especially the lovelies who have been commenting so religiously and those of you who worked out exactly why Cas was Having A Sad! But here's the question: who thinks they're going to make it through their next date...? ;)
> 
> The Craigie Burger is one of those things that is no longer a secret, since it's actually on the Craigie on Main menu nowadays (I think). But it is only served at the bar, people used to line up before opening to get one because they only make a few every night, and it is delicious. The ketchup especially. I swear I don't have a notable thing for burgers, just for food in general...


	6. Fucking Sexy Sonofabitch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What the Hell was a terpene? Dean suspected that it wasn’t anywhere near as dirty as Cas’s low rumble made it sound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I thought about it, and realized that first of all, these two chapters belong together... and second of all, everyone's been so delightful and patient about me posting in chapters that I didn't want to make you lovelies wait through the weekend for the last one!
> 
> So here we are, friends, the last two chapters. Happy Friday, and for everyone who's been following along on this meandering little journey with me: thank you so much, and I hope you've had as much fun with it as I have!

Dean knew he was gonna be rushing his dinner plans a little, when he changed their day over to Monday night rather than the Tuesday night they’d always met before. But Hell, what could he say? The bakery was closed on Tuesdays, and with no classes for Cas to teach, no lab meetings to run? They could take as long as they liked hanging out, no-one had to worry ‘bout crashing the next day…

(Yeah, so being too sleepy to work the next morning wasn’t exactly what Dean was thinking about. A guy could be hopeful, sue him.)

Except of course nothing could go freaking right. When Dean walked in that morning, someone had made sweet dough rather than enriched savory. There were busy lunch rushes, and then there were lunch rushes where they barely had time for the sourdough boules to _cool_ before they were slicing them for sandwiches. Kevin had to call out in the afternoon ‘cause his heat had hit a little earlier than his calendar said it should. So Dean hadn’t been planning on being the one there to close the shop for the evening, but here they were.

He hit the front door almost _running_ home, and by the time Dean’s doorbell went off—because Cas was just as chronically punctual as someone who worked with substances that could cause a public orgy would be—all of Dean’s plans of being showered and smelling good and with gel in his hair were pretty much _fucked._

Forget being showered, Dean was still in his apron and the butter and pecans were still slow-browning for his green beans on the stove. There was flour on his jeans and he didn’t even know whether it was from home or the bakery. He was down to a t-shirt, his flannel thrown over the back of a chair somewhere, and he was _sweating_ from the heat of the oven.

Dammit.

But the way Cas looked at him was wide-eyed, stunned like a squirrel, when Dean popped open the door, an apology already on his lips. The skim of that intense, intense blue gaze up and down him and all the way up again before Cas seemed to realize that he was giving Dean a full-on once-over and his eyes got even wider?

That made Dean think that alright, maybe Cas didn’t mind so much that Dean wasn’t all the way put together for date night right now.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean said, amused, and Castiel _twitched_.

Okay, so maybe Cas didn’t mind Dean all messy and sweaty _at all_. That was all kinds of promising, yeah?

“Oh, ah… hello, Dean.” Cas swallowed and _visibly_ shook himself, and the startled sparrow look settled back down. “For us,” Cas held up the four-pack of Midas Ale in one hand. To Dean’s surprise, he offered a little bouquet of five star-shaped flowers with some little white fluff stalks around it, tied with a ribbon, with his other. “And for you.”

Dean took them from him, blinking, and looking down at them. Huh. “I’ve never had anyone bring me flowers before,” he admitted, studying the bright orange flowers scattered with even little brown speckles. They smelled _great_ —strong, he could smell them even with the scents of his kitchen up his nose, but it was nice. Not overpowering, but like cloves in cream.

“Oh.” Cas looked at the flowers in Dean’s hand, but contemplative, not embarrassed. “Why not?”

“I… huh.” Dean considered that. “I dunno. Not an omega, not a girl, I guess.” He shrugged.

“I don’t see why that should matter. These are tiger lilies,” Cas told him, reaching out and touching one waxy, curved petal with the tip of a gentle finger. “See? They have freckles.”

Only the fact that he had a hot stove going and things actively on it kept Dean from scooping in and grabbing him for a repeat of last week’s goodnight.

Cas looked past him, though, and his head tilted a little to the side. “Aerosmith?” he asked, curiously.

Jesus, Dean was standing here in his own doorway, holding flowers and grinning like a fucking lunatic while Cas stood on his porch. “Yeah, I uh… yeah, c’mon in. Sorry, my timing today was just… anyway.” He rubbed the back of his head with his free hand. “You mind the music?”

“I enjoy Aerosmith.” Cas’s mouth did that cute, wry little upturn at the corner. “My postdocs tell me that I have to start listening to something from after 1990,” he told Dean, very seriously. “I will, someday.”

So yeah, Dean had all kinds of pure, responsible intentions, but he was kissing him again anyway before the door was even all the way closed. Castiel made a small, startled “ _Mmph_!” but he just about melted into it—hard enough that Dean felt it when he fumbled the beer he was holding, and they both grabbed out to keep it from hitting the floor.

“If I end up burning my house down ‘cause you’re distracting me, I’m blaming you, you attractive bastard,” Dean muttered.

Cas reared back and gave him the kind of snooty look down his nose that reminded him so strongly of their first date that Dean almost laughed. “Just because the fates don’t have presentation scents does _not_ mean you should tempt them.”

Okay, so Cas had a point about that. It didn’t keep Dean from ducking in to give him another kiss that sugared him right back up, though.

He didn’t let go of Cas’s hand as he led him down his duplex’s long main hallway and into the kitchen at the back pocket of the house. The butter and pecans on the stove hadn’t burned, but it was a near thing. He pointed at a chair in his breakfast nook. “Okay, sit, and don’t move.”

Cas blinked at him and sat. Trenchcoat, four-pack of beer in his lap, lips innocently pursed and all.

Dean wagged the flowers in his hand at him. “Christ. Charlie did not warn me that you could be a cheeky sonofabitch without saying so much as a _word_ ,” he growled. No, she wouldn’t have, she _knew_ Dean would like that. “Alright, alright. Go make yourself comfortable, put that away… should be some hangers in the hallway closet, if you want to put up your jacket. Food’ll be ready in ten.”

An empty glass jar had to do for the flowers—dammit, Cas had brought him _flowers!_ —and Dean popped them on the table. Shit, should he have gotten candles, or something? He hadn’t made anything fancy to eat, Dean didn’t normally do dates at his _house._

He heard Cas puttering around and popped the green beans in with the butter and pecans for a quick saute, and checked on the meatloaf in the bottom oven of his double-decker. _Mmm_ , Cas was more undressed than Dean had ever seen him when he came back—no more tie, no suit jacket, no trench coat; just a light blue button-down, cuffs undone and rolled up his forearms in Dean’s warm kitchen.

Having him over had been an _awesome_ idea.

Cas folded himself into a chair and as far as fancy date stuff went, there really wasn’t much for Dean to show off, here—Dean realized it when the food came out and he loaded it all onto the table. Cas cocked his head, studying the plates in front of him, and Dean, with a hard, ugly rush of embarrassment, _remembered_ the kind of places Cas had brought him to.

“Yeah, so I’m a pastry chef, not really fine dining or anything,” he muttered, gesturing over the homely, plain spread. “S’my mom’s meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and I figured you’d want some kind of a vegetable. Not fancy, but, y’know. It’ll taste good and stick to all the right parts of you. Oh, right, and I’ve got some fresh bread if you want it? Of course. And olive oil and balsamic if you like that.”

But Cas’s eyes when he turned up to look back at him were blue and bright and… happy? “Dean, it looks _wonderful_ ,” Cas marveled.

“Yeah, you’re lying,” Dean laughed, but some of the nerves prickling the back of his neck settled down. “But that’s okay, you’re allowed to lie on a first date.”

“What? _No._ That’s _phenomenally_ cynical,” Cas told him, so disapproving that if Dean hadn’t been holding a plate of meatloaf he’d have kissed that bossy right out of him. “May I tell you a secret?” Cas leaned in, and to Dean’s shock, raised a hand and beckoned him in with a crooked finger.

Hell, give a nerdy professor an inch and he’d take a damned mile, and Dean was _all for_ that. Dean, kind of delighted, put the plate of meatloaf down next to the green beans and leaned forward.

“I can’t cook,” Cas admitted, in a low purr, almost a whisper, eyes held guiltily wide. “At all. I subsist on restaurants and cafeteria food. So please believe me when I say this looks _miraculous_.”

“Oh, _Cas,_ what the Hell, man, you’re breakin’ my heart here!” Dean laughed, shoving himself back hard enough that the chair rocked. “Look, I can deal with you taking the fucking T around, but that one might actually be a dealbreaker.”

Castiel’s pouty mouth drooped. “Oh, I know,” he answered, mournfully, but his eyes didn’t stop smiling this time. He put a hand on the table and made as if to push off it and stand. “I suspected from the very beginning. I shouldn’t have kept it from you for so long, I should go—"

Dean reached over and grabbed him by the shoulder, pushing him back down into his chair. “You’re such an _ass_ ,” Dean groaned, laughing. “You’re gonna sit here, you’re gonna _eat,_ and then someday you’re gonna make it up to me and let me teach you.”

Cas didn’t blush, this time, but he did light up as he smiled, and that was almost better.

Cas told him about his day. Cas told him about his teaching assistants, about his newest research project _,_ without Dean having to dig it out of him. Dean still didn’t get a lot of it, but Cas laughed when Dean mentioned Charlie’s theories. “I know. She offered to fund a research project for it,” Cas told him, solemnly.

“You take her up on it?”

“No. I’m very worried about where those funds might actually come from.”

It just went to show, Dean thought, that Doctor Castiel Novak really _was_ a smart guy.

Cas, to Dean’s delight, _completely_ lost his words over dessert.

“Oh, _Dean_.”

“Uh-huh.” Dean watched with pure gratification as Castiel took another bite of thyme apple pie with cheddar basketweave crust and all but closed his eyes. Cas ran the back of his spoon blindly through the puddle of ice cream left over and licked, his tongue pink and broad. Holy shit, someone should pay him to do _that_ , not research scents.

“This is _delicious_ ,” he all-but-moaned.

Dean folded his arms, smiling, and sat back in his chair. “I know.” He loved to cook, and he _really_ loved to eat, but watching someone enjoy something _he’d_ made? Yeah, that was its own brand of really fucking satisfying, and Dean had _all_ the confidence in his apple pie. He’d eaten his own piece with its quenelle of homemade rosemary ice cream maybe just a little too fast, but Jesus, Cas was eating it one little apple piece and one square of crust at a _damned time_.

(Dean could probably watch him do that for _hours_.)

“So humble, too.”

“My middle name,” Dean agreed, and grinned as that made Cas crack open one eye to peer suspiciously at him.

“Oh. And I thought my parents were strange for naming my brother _Lucifer_ ,” he observed, and Dean cracked up. “Dean, this is really superb.”

“Yeah…” He chuckled, wiping a hand down his face. He really _had_ been worried about the food for a second—but the meatloaf had been good even for him and he and Cas had _demolished_ a good bit of all of it. “I cheated, made that in the bakery and brought it home. Wish I could serve pie at Bread Zeppelin, but I don’t like having the wet fillings sitting ‘round in cut pastry, you know? It just doesn’t look good when it’s cut and sits. People special-order ‘em whole for holidays, though.”

Castiel hummed and crunched on a piece of crust, dipping it into melted ice cream with his fingers. He was a neat eater, Dean knew—Dean wasn’t—but it looked like that stopped at dessert.

The first time they’d made it to dessert. Huh. How ‘bout that.

He glanced up as Cas asked, “What _is_ your favorite thing to make? At the bakery?”

“Depends on the day of the weekend.” Dean sprawled out a little further in his chair, loose from the meal, a bottle and a half of beer and the sleepy, admiring way Cas was looking at him. “Millefeuille napoleons. That’s Sunday. Kouign amann on Saturday.” That quizzical expression Cas was giving him was _always_ gonna do it for Dean, he thought. “That’s when we make ‘em.” He grinned proudly. “Well, _I_ make ‘em, those babies are all my own. Folk come in from all the way out by Wellesley for ‘em, gotta get ‘em right every time.”

“I don’t know what _either_ of those things are,” Castiel admitted. “But they sound delicious.”

“Fuck _yeah_ they are.” Dean laughed and gestured with his beer. “You gotta come by on a weekend and have one.” He sipped his drink and caught Cas’s gaze following the motion of his lips. So he might’ve been a little showier about taking his drink than he normally was, his tongue flicking across the bottle’s mouth. Cas’s Adam’s apple rolled. “Maybe you can even come by _two_ weekends, have one of each. Y’know, prove you don’t just exist on Mondays and Tuesdays.”

Cas’s blue eyes smiled at him, soft, so _pleased_ at even just that little thing. “Dean, are you inviting me to your workplace?”

Dean grinned, lowered his beer bottle, and went in for the kill. “Only if I can come watch one of your classes.”

Cas’s smile dropped away. “My biochemistry lectures at the medical school are available online,” he tried.

“No _way_.” Also, Dean wasn’t gonna admit that he might’ve used Charlie’s HUID to log in and take a peek already. A lot of it had gone right over his head—what the Hell was a terpene? Dean suspected that it wasn’t anywhere near as dirty as Cas’s low rumble made it sound—but there was something fucking _compelling_ about the way Cas was in front of a class, talking about something he was clearly very, _very_ passionate about.

Cas frowned at him, but his lips finally twitched in resigned agreement. “Come observe one of my freshman seminars, then,” he sighed. “People seem to find those the most… palatable.”

Uh-huh. Dean might have also gone looking at Cas’s Faculty of Arts and Sciences reviews when Charlie had been looking at hers last week—fuck, those Harvard college kids were _vicious_. But people rearranged their schedules just to take Cas’s freshman seminars, and they had to be lotteried due to demand. Sure, it was a damned sexy topic—and from that chili rating, Dean wasn’t the only one who’d noticed that it was being taught by a fucking sexy sonofabitch—but he was pretty sure that Cas was mistaking ‘palatable’ for ‘awesome.’

“This is nice, right?” Dean grinned and gestured back and forth between them. “No heat, no rut, no stuck together on the floor bullshit.” He raised his beer bottle in a salute and patted his full stomach, comfortably. “Gotta love bein’ beta.”

“It’s true.” Cas took the last bite of his apple pie. “I admit, as much as I find the biological processes fascinating, I’m very relieved that I don’t have to adjust my life to those ups or the downs. That _we_ don’t,” he corrected, gesturing back and forth between them, and his smile ghosted up, wryly, just at the very corners. “Well… except when we do.”

Dean laughed. “Amen to that, Cas.”

Castiel’s smile widened, that mischievous pink tick upwards right in the bow of his mouth that made him look more like a naughty little boy than one of the most freaking gorgeous men that Dean had ever laid eyes upon. He picked up his beer bottle, and one eyebrow tilted upwards as he held it up to toast. “To not having to deal with our own hormones?” he invited.

Dean considered that. He reached out and took up Cas’s hand, and lowered the beer bottle back to the table between them. Cas’s playful expression blanked in surprise.

Dean stroked his thumb back and forth against Cas’s knuckles, dipped between his fingers, ran his nail in a bright scrape across the condensation-wet web of thumb and forefinger.

“Oh, I dunno,” Dean told him, smiling just out of the corners of his mouth as Cas’s breath snagged and his eyes went owlishly wide. “I wouldn’t say _that_.”

*_*_*_*

_“This is Dean. Leave your name, number and nightmare on the phone. Wait. Nightmare? I don’t even know why I said that.”_

“Heyyy, handmaiden! So, uh, I haven’t heard from you. So that’s good, right? Did you break out the smolder? You did, didn’t you. And you’re gonna tell me all about it tomorrow, right? Except, ew, maybe without the peens. Oh God there are peens, aren’t there. I’m… yeah okay I’m gonna go. ‘Cause peens. Yeah, I should stop saying that. Yeah. Later, bitches!”

~to be continued~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what's up next for our beta boyos?
> 
> Hormones, of course! Didn't Dean just say so? -wink-
> 
> So if you're smut-sensitive, this is where you may want to get off the ride! And if not...


	7. A Damned Delight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean flashed him his best wink. “ _Yeah,_ I’m beta. So you know that when I say I’m consenting _all over the place,_ there ain’t anything of scent-coercion to it.” He reached up and rubbed the angle of Cas’s jaw with his thumb. “Hundred percent free will, here.”

Dean was the one who put that out there. Cas was the one who stood up, slowly, and rounded Dean’s table without looking away from Dean’s eyes once.

Dean was the one who smirked as Cas reached him, and pushed back from the table to make a little room. Cas was the one who kept moving until he was straddling Dean’s thighs, towering over him, both hands on Dean’s shoulders. Looking up at him like this was strange and foreign, but it meant that Dean got a perfect show of the angle of his jaw and neck, the little crease in his chin, just how _full_ his lips were.

Dean was the one who licked his lips, first, but Cas was the one who bent down to lightly, carefully press their mouths together, and the flick of his tongue was so careful that Dean moaned.

Dean put a hand up to settle it lightly against the side of Cas’s neck, his thumb strumming against soft, satiny close-shaved skin. He’d never seen him with his face so clean and smooth. He murmured, “This for me, right here?”

But Cas was the one who scraped his teeth very lightly against Dean’s bottom lip, and murmured, “Of course.”

Dean shivered and let his head fall back, pulling their mouths apart with a slow drag, but Cas didn’t take the invitation towards his neck. He reached for the bottom of Dean’s t-shirt instead, and _Hell fuckin’ yeah._

Then Cas _stopped_. He stopped, with his knuckles brushing at Dean’s skin through that thin little shield of cotton.

“Am I…” Cas paused, his fingers in the hem of Dean’s plain white t-shirt, “I’m not misunderstanding… am I?”

Cas didn’t look worried, not really, but he looked so _careful_ , watching Dean’s face. Shit, just from this conversation alone, Dean already had a pretty good idea what Cas was gonna be like in bed, and this was gonna be so amazing. “Sorry, no scent cues to give you, here,” he told Cas, and grinned wide—just so there really _was_ no misunderstanding.

Cas blinked, then chuckled, softly. He leaned down and inhaled against Dean’s neck, and even though Dean knew there really _wasn’t_ anything he could possibly get from that, other than sweat and maybe some apples and spices, Dean still shivered, anyway. From this close, Cas smelled like _his_ cooking. “Yes, I think I can confirm that you are still very much a beta,” he agreed, straightening.

Dean flashed him his best wink. “Good, so you know that when I say I’m consenting _all over the place_ , there ain’t anything of scent-coercion to it.” He reached up and rubbed the angle of Cas’s jaw with his thumb. “Hundred percent free will, here.”

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas told him, grave and sweet and just a little too relieved before his smile went wry. “I didn’t know if I was being too… hopeful? I have…” and Dean almost stood up and pinned Cas against the table when the tip of that little pink tongue snuck a lick at the corner of Cas’s mouth. “I have wanted you so badly.”

Yeah, Cas clearly had no idea whatsoever how many fantasies Dean had entertained about just his tie alone. Dean reached back and grabbed his own t-shirt behind the nape of his neck, leaned forward just enough to make room between himself and the chair back, and yanked it over his head before tossing it to the floor. “Cas, I’d say just the right amount of hopeful,” he chuckled.

Dean knew he was a pretty damned good-looking guy, both in his clothes and without. He didn’t have a six-pack or anything, but his shoulders and chest looked like he could hand-knead dough for hours—because he did—and his waist wasn’t bad, especially with how much tasting he did. The way Cas was looking at him open-mouthed, though, fuck.

Dean shivered as a dry finger started just under his ear and traced down the side of his neck, following the hollow of it, curving inwards, down to his collarbone. No, he didn’t make scent or anything, but that didn’t mean that strap of muscle wasn’t _sensitive._

Cas’s kiss against it was careful, open-mouthed, and gently tongued, so clearly he had some idea. Dean opened up, turning his chin away to make room to let him explore, letting his hands come to rest on the delicate, fucking _perfect_ shelf of Cas’s hips. Cas’s button-down shirt was thin cotton and Dean pressed in, he could almost feel the V underneath there against his thumbs—

Dean’s hips almost jerked off the seat when Cas’s teeth closed deliberately on the angle where neck met shoulder.

 _Fuck_!

Okay. So. Assertive 1, shy 0.

The chair scraped on the floor as Dean shoved back against it, and only it being as heavy as it was kept Dean from tipping both of them over backwards and right into the world of concussions. Cas stayed where he was, leaning back against the breakfast table as Dean heaved himself to his feet, still close enough that his legs rubbed up Cas’s.

Then he reached greedily for Cas’s buttons.

Dean was pretty sure he’d have been happy no matter what he got under Cas’s clothes—sure, he was excited to find out, but that was ‘cause it was _Cas._ Dean didn’t pretend his own body was perfect, either, but he sure as Hell didn’t have any complaints about how it worked, and he’d never gotten any about how he used it.

He _didn’t_ expect what he found under that plain pastel button-down. No undershirt, for one. _Yeah_.

Cas twitched a little when Dean pressed both hands to his torso just over where his slacks hit, and his head tipped back as Dean slid his palms upwards, appreciating him with his fingers. Smooth long lines, barely any hair, the most perfect delicate treasure trail Dean had ever seen. Dean was pretty thick, he knew that, and Cas wasn’t jacked or anything, and he was pale under his shirt. But he was _cut:_ Dean knew a runner’s or a biker’s lean lines when he saw them. Dean’s biochemist was _not_ a weedy little professor under those suits. Shit, the fine dip of his waist alone was just _begging_ for a tongue. And when Dean spread the wings of his shirt wider like he was opening a present—

Dean licked his lips and blinked, hard. The delicate box of angular symbols decorating the angle of Cas’s rib cage on the left side didn’t disappear. He pressed his hand to it. Nope, still there, peeking through Dean’s fingers, the small inclines of it delicate and the lines tangled with age. “Cas?”

“Mmm?”

“You have a _tattoo?_ ” Holy God, that was fucking _sexy_.

Cas blinked back like he was surprised Dean had even noticed—like Dean might somehow _miss_ that Castiel Novak had what looked like three graceful, interwoven lines of words in another language inked on his _skin_ , just over the smooth, lean arches of his ribs “Oh. Yes. It’s Enochian. ‘May I Stand, May I Succor—”

“’May I Hold The Center,’” Dean finished, with a little grin. “The _beta prayer?_ Oh my God, Cas, you are _such_ a nerd.”

“That, I believe, is my _actual job._ Besides, I was eighteen,” Cas grumbled. “Impulsiveness is not solely an alpha trait.”

Dean raised his eyebrows at him and then stared down at the very permanent marks—the ones asking for stability, serenity, and balance. “Uh-huh.”

“ _Yes,_ I am aware of the irony now,” Cas answered, glaring, before Dean could stop smirking.

“I like it,” Dean declared. He ran his fingers down the time-soft lines, scattering down the quiet shadows of his ribs. “I don’t think you should cover it up ever again.” He tickled his way along a rib, then followed it under the delicate curved line of a pec and trailed a finger up Cas’s sternum. “You know what? I’ve decided. You ain’t allowed to wear a shirt anymore.”

“That would be distracting at work.” Cas tapped a finger meditatively on the edge of the table, very serious for someone whose button-down was wide open, and his gaze went contemplative, over Dean’s shoulder. “Though I suppose Meg could protect me.”

Dean momentarily goggled at him. Wait. Uh. “Cas, I wasn’t—”

Castiel’s thoughtful blue eyes flicked to his.

He smirked. The fucking little bastard _smirked_.

“Alright, you asshole, Meg’s not gonna be able to save you, you have no idea of all the things that I wanna do to her precious unicorn—” Dean stopped himself as Cas’s smirk slipped, and he just kind of started to look horrified. Dean grimaced. “Yeah, okay, I don’t even know where I was going with that. Jesus, your foot-in-mouth disease is contagious.”

“Can we please not mention diseases at a moment like this?” Cas asked him, a little pitifully. “I realize that we are adults and must have that discussion, but that context is _horrible_.”

Dean couldn’t help it. He burst out laughing, tossing his head back.

So he probably did deserve it when Cas leaned in and bit him again.

Just as he was pretty sure Cas deserved it when the startled shock of sensation made Dean’s hips jerk forward against his, pinning him against the table, and _oh, hello._

So maybe it wasn’t fair for Dean to close his teeth— _gently—_ around Cas’s earlobe and whisper right up against his ear, “Context, huh? How’s this, then: I’m clean, Cas. Are you? ‘Cause I wanna have you for dessert.”

But hey, if Cas wasn’t playing fair, why should he?

Cas didn’t answer ‘yes’ so much as he sort of… squeaked it, his shoulders heaving from how hard he was breathing, eyes closed, and oh God, he was just that sensitive, was he?

“I’m not fucking you in my kitchen,” Dean growled. He didn’t know where the words came from or how he managed to pull away and he really hadn’t thought all those lessons in food hygiene were _that_ deeply ingrained into him, but, well, here they were. Cas almost toppled against him when he tried to follow him. Dean snagged him around the waist. “C’mon.”

They _almost_ made it to the bedroom, but the arm of Dean’s sofa was just a little too good of a place to start on Cas’s pants— _Jesus_ , it was like trying to undress a sexy octopus, though, because somehow Dean’s fly was open, his pants were sagging down his hips and Cas already had his hand stuck inside Dean’s boxers, palming him awkwardly. And Dean had _no idea_ when any of that had happened. The angle of it was all wrong, still half-trapped in denim, but it was just good enough that Dean made no promises on them not ending up on the floor with Cas’s ass up in the air shortly.

While Dean was still just trying to get the button undone with his fingers shaking, Cas bent down and lapped at his nipple, seeming completely unconcerned about the fact that he’d just been nearly backed into the couch. One clever hand worked Dean’s jeans down his thighs. The other proved that it had really just been the angle trapped in denim, because at the next careful stroke a splotch of wet darkened the front of Dean’s plain grey boxers.

 _Fuck_. Okay, maybe _Dean’s_ ass was gonna be up in the air shortly. He hurried.

Thank God Cas’s slacks weren’t tight, once he finally managed to wrestle the button open. Cas’s hand left Dean’s cock— _oh thank God—_ to help him with carefully peeling down the zipper, easing the black cloth off his hard-on and shoving the pants the rest of the way down, stepping out of them, shoes and socks in one impatient motion. Cas went to come right back in but Dean stopped him with a hand on his chest.

“Cas?” he asked, dumbfounded—maybe a little clearer now that Cas wasn’t determined to make him come into his boxers, yeah, but maybe less _,_ ‘cause what was he _seeing_ here? “Are you wearing… are those silk boxers?”

Cas looked down at himself like he had to check. The lustrous, _very thin_ black cloth draped over the tops of his thighs and his bulge and sat low on his hips. Dean was tempted to flip him around just to see how high they rode up against the line of his ass.

“No,” Cas answered, more unfairly calm than Dean thought he should be. “They’re satin. More durable.”

 _What?_ Durable? Yeah, durability really wasn’t what he was thinking of when he was thinking about nice underwear to wear for a date, but Dean barked out a laugh. That was so damned _Cas_. “Mm. Well, I _like_.” He licked his lips, and ran an appreciative hand down the slippery-coated line of Cas’s lean hip. Dean also really liked that Cas had been hoping for this, too—maybe it was _stupid,_ but he did. “Planning something that needs ‘em to hold up to rough treatment, huh, Cas?” he teased—

Cas frowned at him. “Well, I do wear them every day.”

Dean’s brain stalled.

Cas wore satin underwear _every_ _day_. Yeah, it was just close-fitting boxers, but… he wore fucking _satin_ under those boring suits. He’d been wearing them through all of those dates with Dean, the soft fabric slinking and contouring itself against his cock and ass and thighs the way it was now.

Shit. _Fuck_.

“They, uh, gonna be ruined if I do something to get ‘em wet?” Dean managed, hoarsely.

Cas looked confused. “No…?” And Castiel’s voice tipped up at the end in a startled upcurve as Dean knocked him onto the sofa with a shove, and kneed apart his legs, watching his thighs strain the fabric of those fucking slinky black boxers with dry-mouthed appreciation. Then there was nothing dry about Dean’s mouth as his knees hit the carpet so fast he felt the shock of it reverb up his hips.

Dean leaned over and breathed a warm line up the tent in the satin, one hand resting on the bare stretch of each of Cas’s thighs. He wasn’t sure if Cas could feel the air through the cloth, but he sure acted as if he could, legs tensing, his hips straining towards Dean’s face.

“Oh…” he mumbled, and Dean saw him dig his fingers into the cushions. “I’m sorry, that’s… it’s very rude of me.”

“Cas, if I don’t have you rude and cussing by the end of tonight, I’m gonna think I didn’t do a good enough job…” Dean dropped a kiss to the (okay, _generous_ ) bulge curving up and towards Cas’s left hip, pushing the slippery fabric against it with a rub of his lips. “And then I’m gonna have to do it all over again.”

“That is a very ineffective threat, Dean.” Cas was half laughing, half really _not_ , but he almost managed to keep his tone steady even with a cock about a millimeter from Dean’s mouth. Oh, no, that was just not gonna do.

But Dean took just a little time to appreciate the muscle he had under his hands, pressing his fingertips into the top of each of Cas’s thighs. “You, uh… you bike to work, right?” A mile each way to Harvard, five each way to his lab at the Broad Institute. Dean knew that, but here was the evidence of it, just waiting for Dean’s mouth.

Cas looked confused. “Yes…?”

“Number one, I need pictures. Number two…” Dean turned and nipped his teeth into the top of a heavy quad, “…don’t you ever fucking stop.”

“I hardly think—”

Dean licked him through his boxers.

“— _oh!_ ”

Dean went to work on him openmouthed and sloppy, and silk or satin or _whatever_ it was looked even better wet. Cas wasn’t just a bulge through them anymore—hard enough to peek skin through the slit, but the rest was all so thin and clingy that it almost looked more obscene than him being naked. “I _really_ like these,” Dean breathed. “ _Damn_.”

Cas’s head was thrown back on Dean’s sofa, he was white-knuckling the cushions, and his breath was coming in harsh little jitters by the time Dean straddled him and got them both out to take a good long look.

Yup. He’d thought so. Just as pretty as the rest of him.

Dean’s hand wasn’t big enough, he couldn’t close the circle around them both—Hell, he was pretty sure _no-one’s_ hands were big enough—but with how Cas’s hips were moving under his in a fucking enticing little wiggle, Cas didn’t seem to mind. Dean clumsily swiped a thumb through Cas’s slit and it came away wet to the knuckle. Cas’s breath hitched—he was looking down between them now with his lips parted and his eyes wide and fascinated.

Huh. “Never watched this before?” Dean teased, pushing his hips forward even as he held his hand still around both of them, and there was just enough precome on them both that the friction of it was excellent.

Cas gasped. But, “No,” he finally answered, not looking away as Dean did it again, rolling this time, rubbing their cocks together and the heads of them peeking out over the top of his fist, with his palm and fingers keeping either of them from sliding away. “It’s… extremely compelling.”

“Oh, you are a damned delight,” Dean laughed.

Cas raised his head and squinted. “I think you’re mocking me again.”

“Not even close, angel,” and Dean honestly meant all of that, because Cas’s face was flushed the prettiest pink all the way up to his hairline, and his cock was hard and wet, uncut and perfect against Dean’s with a slight uptilted curve to it that was damned mouthwatering. Jesus, that big, flushed crown alone. “Wanna come like this?”

Asking as he gave them both a long stroke from base to tip probably wasn’t fair. Dean did it anyway. And then did it again. If they’d had just a drop of lube, it wouldn’t have even been a question, it would have been a _certainty,_ but all of Dean’s supplies were in his bedroom.

“Yes? No, I…” Cas shuddered underneath him. “It is so hard to think when you’re doing that,” he said, a little bit plaintive, and Dean didn’t even know whether he wanted to kiss his pout and the distressed little crease in his forehead, or suck his cock down until he howled.

“Alright, lemme put it this way. D’you like to top? Or bottom? Or neither, that’s just fine by me, too,” he added hastily.

Castiel cocked his head quizzically like he didn’t understand the question. “Why can’t I like everything?”

He still looked confused when Dean dropped their foreheads together and groaned. “If I end up coming all over you, it’s gonna be all your own fault,” he muttered.

“I don’t know why you think I wouldn’t like that either.”

 _Shit_. Dean actually _felt_ the precome well up and dribble over at that. “Don’t make me get out the damned sex dice, Cas, I don’t care that you’re not an omega, I _will_ rim you until you’re screaming,” and the completely bewildered look that Cas gave him for that, yeah, Dean couldn’t stop himself from laughing.

And maybe he got a little distracted from what was going on down below when Cas nuzzled back in and kissed him back, the way that Dean was sure he could get addicted to pretty damned fast—deliberate and slow. It went a little sloppy when Dean tightened his hand around them again, really nice and wet now, and that was good, too.

“I love your laugh,” Cas told him when they broke for air, so unembarrassed, the most perfect, beautiful sap, and that decided Dean.

“I haven’t been fucked in a bit,” Dean offered. “Wanna do that?”

It occurred to Dean, distantly, that maybe that was pushing it, that that kind of was a _lot_ , but Cas’s eyes just went darker and hungry. “Yes,” he breathed. “Oh, I want that very much,” and that was all.

They actually did get naked and make it all the way to the bedroom without ending up rutting on the floor like a matching pair of alphas, but Cas stalled at the door, his hand still inside Dean’s, the other touching the edge of the doorframe with a strange carefulness. Some of the wild was gone from his expression.

“Dean, I don’t… have a great deal of experience. Just…” there was that careful look again, that one that made Dean’s chest hurt. “I don’t want you to be disappointed.”

“Don’t think you could, Cas.” Dean could say that with certainty.

“But if—”

Dean chuckled and reversed them, backing them towards his bed and towing Cas behind him until he could sit down on his mattress. He didn’t let go of Cas’s hand, and Cas was looking down at him again, but he didn’t try to pull his fingers free. “If all I was lookin’ for was wet sheets, Cas, I’ve got my hand for that.” He tugged. “Now _c’mere_.”

And Castiel Novak stretched out on his back on Dean’s plain sheets, Hell. Dean wanted to take a picture of him there, fucking _paint_ him there, drawn him in skin and flush and wet mouth and pink cheeks. Dean clambered on top of him, straddling those goddamned _thighs,_ and Cas’s hands went to his hips to help him, balanced him as Dean fumbled for lube and condoms.

“Let me, this time,” Dean told him, and got his own fingers wet.

He went too rough with it to start, barely brushing over his hole with one finger before he gave himself two—normally Dean didn’t mind a little burn at all but his breath caught at the unpleasant sting of that, his fingers freezing, thighs clenching up around Cas’s. Too fast, too much all at once, _not so impatient, Winchester, what’re you doing?_

He breathed through it, but Cas must’ve felt him tense up. A warm hand stroked down his shoulder blade and his flank, his waist, then followed its way forward and ran a finger up the bobbing line of where even that little jolt hadn’t been enough to get Dean any softer.

“Dean, if you don’t treat yourself gently, I’m going to take over,” Cas told him, sternly.

“Oh and you’re telling _me_ about ineffective sexy threats,” Dean teased, but he slowed down. With his knees spread like this, it was pretty easy to lean the rest of his way down over Cas and let Dean’s guy have some of his weight. Dean liked that himself—knowing it was a man on top of him even when he had his eyes closed, enjoying the silky nothing-else-like-it rub of cock alongside cock, the softer brush as their balls touched together. And he wasn’t getting rut, not heat, not pheromones when he licked up Cas’s neck, nothing but _Cas_.

From the basement-low groan underneath him, Cas liked that too.

Then Cas, clever boy, stuck a hand between them and gathered both their cocks into his smooth, firm grip, _mmmm_. Even with his hand wedged between them, barely able to move, that was _just_ right. Dean let the fingers in him spread a little more again. He closed his eyes to just _feel_ all of it, and when he opened them again, Cas was watching his face, smiling soft, a little goofy, but… intrigued.

Dean was pretty sure he was just about ready—he wasn’t even trying to tag deeper or curve his fingers to find anything more, just enjoying the stretch, when Cas let go of those teasing little workup strokes he’d been squeezing around them both. He reached out for the lube that Dean had left right next to his knee. Cas squeezed out a blob of the clear jelly, rubbed it thoughtfully between his fingertips.

“Yeah,” Dean breathed, momentarily forgetting that he did have a goal in all of this for the thought of just rubbing against Cas lube-wet until they were both a mess. But Cas didn’t reach down between them again.

Instead, he looked up into Dean’s face again, and reached around.

Dean sucked in a sharp, startled breath at the feel of a brush of cool gel at the very top of his crack, where he was _really_ sensitive, a careful little touch. “Oh, _hello_ there,” he joked—then Cas’s fingertip wiggled deeper, slid experimentally against where Dean was already stretched tight, and Dean shuddered. Oh wow. Yeah, it always felt different getting touched by someone else.

“May I?” Cas asked.

“Huh?” Dean’s head was already half in a fog at the feel of Cas’s fingers lightly slipping against his own. “Oh—yeah, sure, ‘course, I—” Dean started to pull his fingers out, but Cas shook his head, tracing Dean’s rim again. Their thumbs bumped.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” Cas told him. Then he started to edge in a slender finger _beside_ both of Dean’s.

Oh, shit. Yeah. Yeah, not too much, not at all, not even remotely. Oh, _awesome_.

The mix of him and not-him, the way Dean knew exactly what his fingers were pressing on and what his own hand was gonna do compared to him not having a _clue_ about Cas’s, all of it was messing him up. In a good way. Really nice. _Fuck!_

“S’good,” Dean agreed, a little blurred against Cas’s shoulder—he wasn’t trying to hold himself up anymore. His shoulder and arm were starting to ache, pulled behind him even though this was a pretty good position, but he didn’t want to stop. _“Cas_.”

Cas whimpered a little from nothing but Dean saying his name, and for all that the finger Cas had in him was just moving in careful, gentle dips right at his rim, his hips shifted under Dean’s a little desperately.

Ah, shit, Dean really wasn’t this selfish in bed normally, he honestly wasn’t. He eased his fingers the rest of the way out just so he could try and think, try and concentrate on Cas a little more, but Cas didn’t get that memo—just got a determined look to his face that couldn’t possibly have been hotter. And sunk that finger deep enough that Dean’s body squeezed automatically around it.

With how he’d been stretching himself out the one shouldn’t have really been enough, but that didn’t mean it didn’t fire Dean all the way up anyway. His back arched like he was an omega trying to present, his hips ground his cock down into Cas’s groin, and all of a sudden Dean was teetering close—way, way too close.

“ _Shit_ ,” he gasped. “Okay, okay, stop, sweetheart, _stop_.”

Cas stopped immediately, going wide-eyed. Even though Cas stopping had been exactly what he’d been going for, Dean couldn’t bite back his moan of disappointment. “Sorry,” he managed to get out before Cas got alarmed. “Too close, almost… _goddamn_ , Cas.”

It was on the tip of Dean’s tongue to tell him that they didn’t have to take it any further than this, not if Cas didn’t want to. He knew what _he_ wanted, though, dammit did he, and it was gonna be a second before Dean managed to summon back the brain to say words. Yeah, he was sure offering Cas an out before they went any further was the right thing, but he selfishly didn’t actually _want_ to offer.

Cas’s lower lip was swollen from how hard he’d been nipping at it, and his eyes were barely blue anymore. “I want you,” he said, with that gorgeous, brutal simplicity he had sometimes. He moved his finger in a slow drag that left Dean gasping, ragged. “I want to be inside you, Dean.”

Yeah, Cas was definitely the brave one.

“Oh thank God,” Dean breathed, and if it wasn’t exactly romantic, it was sincere and relieved—and Cas’s delighted grin back at him, well, that was _definitely_ sincere.

The stretch of that big, full crown, even with a condom and a handful of lube, was just on the verge of too much. It pushed at the edge of pain, not just the slow burn that Dean really fucking loved about getting filled up. But that just made it real rather than Dean’s wisps of fantasy about Cas’s tie or his mouth, and he kept riding him the rest of the way down on one slow, smooth stroke. Oh, _God_. He hadn’t been lying when he’d told Cas it’d been awhile, that was intense.

“Hi,” Dean whispered, and leaned the rest of the way down to press his lips against where Cas’s mouth had gone slack, his eyes rolling up in his head a little, and _really debauched_ was a look Dean wanted to see on him over and over again. Dean didn’t think anyone could blame him for bending over and trying to kiss the unholy _fuck_ out of this amazing guy.

 _“Oh_ ,” Cas moaned into his mouth, and his fingers twisted up Dean’s sheets on either side of him as Dean rolled his hips without breaking them apart. “Oh— _Dean_ —”

 _Fuck,_ the way he moaned Dean’s name, deep and shaky. Yeah, that slow and gentle thing might have to wait for another time.

Dean pressed a hand to his cock, not to stroke, just to hold against his belly as he struggled himself back upright on his knees, legs spread. He leaned back and planted his other hand on one of Cas’s juicy thighs for leverage as he rode him down, his ass squeezing tight around Cas’s cock with every pull upwards. He probably looked pretty damned shameless himself—that was what Cas’s face was telling him, just as it was telling Dean just how much Cas _liked_ it. So Dean maybe put just a little bit more into tossing his head back, maybe moaned a little louder than he would have otherwise.

The little stuttered, punched-out noises Cas was making and the way he was chewing again on his lower lip with those unbelievable blue eyes watching Dean riding him, well. Jesus, what kind of a fucking idiot had Dean been that he’d said, once upon a time, that he didn’t like it how Cas kept looking at him? Hell, Cas put _everything_ into those damned eyes of his.

Right now, Cas’s eyes were halfway to oblivion and he was holding himself so tense and so still and so desperate on Dean’s bed, and he just didn’t need to _do_ that.

“S’okay, sweetheart. I want this—yeah, c’mon, Cas, _fuck me_ , I know you want to,” Dean gasped, and rolled his hips down hard.

The desperation cracked like the surface of a lava field. Castiel growled. He actually fucking _growled_ from deep in his chest, and Dean wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d tried to shove them both over, but he didn’t. Cas put his hands right down on Dean’s hips to yank him down instead, and thrust upwards to meet him.

 _Shit_. Dean thought he was prepared for that, for the surge of strength under him, the way fingertips dug into his hips, and Cas just _shoved_ his cock up and in in a way that lit Dean up right from the inside. He just _wasn’t_. This time, there wasn’t anything exaggerated about how loud his moan was. There wasn’t anything exaggerated about his breath coming in shocked little knockout moments as Cas just kept going, and Dean was pretty sure Cas might not _mean_ to be tagging his prostate the way he was—but he really fucking _was_.

(Cas had funny definitions of a lot of things. ‘Disappointed’ was gonna be another one that Dean was going to add to that list. If he had any brains left at the end of this.)

Cas came first—Dean was pretty sure that he would just from how worked up he was. The way he lost rhythm in a harsh stutter felt all kinds of fucking delicious, though, the frantic twist of his body as he tried to get _in in in_ to draw out just that last little bit. He was nearly silent. And the look on his face, mouth open and blissful, eyelids fluttering, was so good that Dean didn’t even mind.

Dean still whined a little and hunched in as Cas’s body went loose and fucked out on Dean’s bed underneath him, but that was just the principle of the thing. Besides, Dean was pretty nearly there himself anyway, he was looking forward to painting his stomach white and marking him all up—

Cas grabbed him by the hips and Dean sucked in a startled hard breath as Cas yanked. His cock slid out of Dean a little too fast and left him swimming at how it felt to be empty so _suddenly_ again. But Cas kept hauling Dean forward fast enough that Dean had to yelp and catch himself on the headboard—

Cas’s mouth wrapped hungrily around the tip of Dean’s cock, and he sucked like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted.

Dean almost broke the headboard at that glorious messy slide of tongue and _suction._ _“Cas_ ,” he warned at a gasp, bowing over him as his stomach muscles all tightened, all at once. Fuck… _fuck!_ He’d known he was close, he hadn’t known he was _this_ close.

Castiel just looked at him, plush mouth stretched obscenely tight around Dean’s shaft and his eyes happy, eyebrows tucked together in concentration. Strong fingers dug hard into the meat of Dean’s ass, pulled, moving Dean rather than Cas trying to move his head and holy fuck Dean didn’t have to be told twice.

Cas hummed something that might have been encouragement or permission or damned _Dream On,_ but by then Dean was two desperate, rough thrusts in and against his tongue. He barely managed to pull out enough that that he didn’t think he was going to spill right down Cas’s throat before the last of Dean’s control just _imploded_.

Somewhere, Dean thought about how completely rude he was being, but Dean’s nerdy, pretty little professor squinted his eyes shut as Dean came and Cas swallowed like a _fucking pro_. Those big hands clamped tight on his hips and holding Dean right against him made Dean admit, dizzily, that Cas probably didn’t mind Dean being rude.

Cas also stayed right there, too, just mouthing carefully at Dean, and Dean hung on as long as he could, clutching onto the headboard and shaking all over at the feel of a slow, careful tongue moving along his underside and carefully nudging around his slit, the ridge of his glans. Finally he had to yank off and back, panting with oversensitivity. Dean’s knees almost didn’t hold him, and his thighs were trembling and achy.

The sight of Cas looking up at him sleepy-eyed, with his clever, pouty mouth red and wet and _used_ , would have gotten Dean hard all over again if he’d been fifteen years younger.

Hell, Cas licked his lips, slowly, and he almost did anyway.

(Fuck. Dean didn’t know whether to be intrigued or _afraid_.)

“You’re a menace, you know that?” Dean gasped, sitting back on his heels. He had to prop a hand on Cas’s chest to keep himself sitting upright. Cas’s cock nestled half-soft, wet and slick, just behind his balls, and just knowing that had Dean shuddering again.

Cas, though, was looking very pleased with himself. “That’s a lovely compliment,” he told Dean, seriously, and Dean choked on a chuckle.

“Don’t make me laugh, still tryin’ to breathe here, asshole,” he grumbled, but he petted down Cas’s side, leaned down to kiss him slow, so the guy couldn’t possibly think he meant it. (Dean was probably gonna have to work on not hiding behind jokes. Just ‘cause he honestly _hadn’t_ known Cas was taking him seriously didn’t mean he didn’t have a hell of a lot to make up for.)

He grimaced a little a second into Cas’s tongue dipping back into his mouth—he could taste his own come, bitter salt, and that normally wasn’t something Dean was into—but what the Hell, considering that Dean couldn’t feel his _spine_ right now he didn’t care. Dean was pretty sure just lying around on top of someone for a good long while, kissing while naked and still mostly hard, was one of life’s most underappreciated joys—even though he’d sure as Hell never _say_ it.

Cas’s muscles shifted pleasantly under him, and Dean shifted with them, relaxing down and in and letting his legs straighten out. Smooth hands cradled his shoulder blades as they rearranged, and Dean let his forearms rest crossed on Cas’s chest, looking down at him, close.

“Not too heavy?”

“I like it.” Simple as anything. That goddamned blunt _honesty_.

“ _Damn,_ you. Where’d you learn to swallow like that?” Dean blurted out—before he realized he might not actually want to know the answer to that. (He hadn’t _thought_ he was the jealous type, but the idea of anyone else seeing Dean’s quiet, steady, serious Cas _undone_ the way he’d been… Dean wasn’t sure he liked it.)

Cas blinked, his head dropping back to the mattress under him—they’d started out with Cas’s head on a pillow, Dean wasn’t really sure where it had gone. “I don’t have much practical experience,” he answered, calmly, “But I’ve done some experimentation and found that I don’t have much of a gag reflex,” and that was no kind of answer at all, but it was _every kind of answer_ and Dean toppled off him and just kind of _whined_ into the nearest bit of mattress.

He was _definitely_ too old to be this horny this soon.

But no sooner had Cas gotten rid of the condom than he tucked himself right back into bed, gathered Dean in with an arm on his waist and nestled his cheek against the crest of his shoulder, completely unembarrassed about wanting to snuggle. Dean’s heart might have just turned into a damp little puddle on the floor.

(He might have been watching him through his eyelashes to see where Cas was headed—towards the door or back to bed. He curled his arm over Cas’s shoulders.)

“So?” he asked Cas’s sweet-sweaty hairline. “How about them hormones, eh?”

Cas snorted, softly. “I think… I am feeling… very charitable about them at this moment.”

Dean grinned sleepily and ran his fingers through that thoroughly fucked-up dark hair. “Wanna stay the night?” he asked, and yeah, he heard the way his own voice sounded a little shy, the way Dean almost never was. Well, fuck it anyway.

Cas lifted his head from Dean’s shoulder, looked at him—considered. Cas considered for long enough that Dean started to sweat. His stomach tightened once, unpleasantly.

“I don’t know, Dean,” Cas mused, and the corner of his mouth lifted playfully. “That’s _very_ forward for a first date.”

*_*_*_*

It was Tuesday morning, and Dean licked Cas awake—his tongue skipping over the neat lines of Enochian low on his ribs, tracing the beta prayer on his skin. He pressed the blade of his tongue to the coda, and Cas’s hand was resting on the back of his head. Dean smiled and peered upwards.

Cas blinked down at him, looking sleepy and bemused. “Oh,” he murmured, his dark voice gravel and slow honey. “This is very decadent.”

“Oh, I’ll give you _decadent_ ,” Dean promised, grinning, and continued his way downwards.

Couldn’t let the nerdy beta professor show him up, after all.

Later, Cas very carefully made coffee while wearing one of Dean’s t-shirts. He still looked kind of dazed. It was a _really_ fucking good look on him.

Dean, whistling, pulled his apron on over his boxers and kneaded dough on the countertop for orange blossom morning buns.

(With maybe a few extra for Charlie.)

~fin~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all, lovelies! Let's be honest: our two idiots deserved some lovin' after what they've been put through. Right? 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who read, commented, laughed, conjectured, or just plain was exasperated with these two! I honestly hope you had as much fun with the beta boyos as I have... are you as sad it's over as I am?

**Author's Note:**

> All credit goes to the amazing [Ltleflrt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ltleflrt/pseuds/Ltleflrt), to whom this delightful idea belongs! I couldn't have thought of anything like this on my own, and I am so grateful you put this prompt up for adoption. 
> 
> "Dean and Castiel are Betas that are introduced through friends or an app or something completely mundane. Every time they go on a date, it gets interrupted by Alpha or Omega crap. Alphas getting into a fight, an omega going into heat, true mates finding each other and trying to bang in a public place, etc. Basically it's a 5+1 fic. Five times hormones ruined Dean and Castiel's date, and 1 time it made the date perfect (they finally decide to just meet at one of their houses for dinner and end up in bed with each other)."
> 
> (And they did! Without the house burning down! ;) )
> 
> Please come join us on the [Profound Bond](https://discord.gg/profoundbond) Discord Server (i.e. the wonderful, zany place where all these prompts and ideas are coming from!)


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